MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 
CLARE  SHERIDAN 


CLARE  SHERIDAN 

(Photograph  by  Francis  Bruguiere) 


MY 

AMERICAN 

DIARY 


BY 

CLARE  SHERIDAN 

Author  of  "MAYFAIR  TO  MOSCOW 


(b 


BONI  AND  LIVERIGHT 

PUBLISHERS        :         NEW  YORK 


35 


Copyright,  1922, 
By  Boni  and  Liveright,  Inc. 

All  rights  reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


DEDICATION 


To  those  I  have  met  in  this  country 
who    have   not    misunderstood    me. 


852946 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Clare  Sheridan    .  * Frontispiece 

George  Gray  Barnard,  describing  his  clois- 
ters to  Clare  Sheridan 72 

Lady  Randolph  Churchill 154 

Margaret,  who  is  being  brought  up  in  Eng- 
land, like  a  conventionally  proper  little 
girl 226 

Dick  sailing  his  battleship  in  the  turbulent 
Mexican   river 272 

The  "Russian  Castle"  in  the  "Land  of 
Make-Believe" 3°2 

"Charlie"  in  his  dressing-gown  on  his  Moor- 
ish sunbathed  veranda 340 

"Charlie"  tells  Dick  the  story  of  the 
wrecked  ship  on  the  beach       ....     348 


VII 


INTRODUCTION 

HHHE  publication  of  an  American  diary  requires  neither 
<*  apology  nor  explanation,  especially  when  it  is  more  a 
record  than  a  criticism.  Besides,  the  "best  people"  seem  to 
do  it.  I  have  upon  my  desk  an  old  volume  entitled :  "Travels 
in  the  United  States,  etc.,  during  1849  and  1850/'  by  the 
Lady  Emmeline  Stuart  Worily.  It  is  dedicated  with  some 
pomp  "to  the  Countess  of  Chesterfield  by  her  most  affection- 
ate cousin  the  authoress/'  By  a  strange  coincidence  we  seem 
to  have  trodden  the  same  paths,  and  ofttimes  our  impressions 
are  the  same.  Her  experiences  in  1850  traveling  with  her 
little  girl  are  in  many  ways  not  dissimilar  to  mine  in  1921 
traveling  with  my  little  son.  She  describes  her  visits  to 
New  York,  Washington,  Philadelphia,  Pittsburgh,  etc.,  and 
then  she  goes  to  Vera  Cruz,  Mexico  City,  Puebla,  and  many 
other  places.  She  has  the  unconscious  arrogance  of  a  genteel 
aristocrat;  she  describes  the  people  she  meets  and  writes 
of  them  as  "Ladies  and  Gentlemen"  instead  of  as  "men  and 
women."  For  her  there  is  no  Bohemianism  and  she  has  no 
perplexities  about  world  movements.  Nevertheless  she 
expresses  a  deep  interest  in  Russia  and  some  of  her  com- 
ments are  not  without  value  even  in  this  day. 

I  think  I  will  allow  Lady  Emmeline  to  voice  in  her  own 
mid-Victorian  language  some  of  my  own  opinions.  Her 
condescension,  her  lack  of  humor  and  her  naivete  have 
a  charm  that  I  cannot  compete  with. 

Beginning  with  New  York,  she  says,  "I  like  the  Americans 
more  and  more,  either  they  have  improved  wonderfully 
lately  or  else  the  criticisms  on  them  have  been  cruelly  exag- 
gerated. They  are  particularly  courteous  and  obliging;  and 
seem,  I  think,  amiably  anxious  that  foreigners  should  carry 
away  a  favorable  impression  of  them.  As  for  me — /  am 
determined  not  to  be  prejudiced,  but  to  judge  of  them 
exactly  as  I  find  them;  and  I  shall  most  pertinaciously  con- 

IX 


INTRODUCTION 

tinue  to  praise  them  (if  I  see  no  good  cause  to  alter  my  pres- 
ent humble  opinion).  I  have  witnessed  but  very  few  isolated 
cases,  as  yet,  of  the  wonderful  habits  so  usually  ascribed  to 
them — the  superior  classes  here  have  almost  always  excel- 
lent manners,  and  a  great  deal  of  real  and  natural,  as  well 
as  acquired,  refinement,  and  are  often  besides  {which  per- 
haps will  not  be  believed  in  fastidious  England)  extremely 
distinguishing  looking" 

It  is  written  in  the  spirit  of  her  day  and  is  meant  to  be 
extremely  complimentary.  It  pleases  me  to  note  that  I  have 
already  unconsciously  corroborated  her  remark  that:  "The 
Americans,  I  think,  are  a  very  musically  inclined  people — 
far  more  naturally  so,  it  strikes  me,  than  we  Britishers." 

She  tells  of  meeting  Mr.  Prescott  in  Boston.  "Prescott 
is  one  of  the  most  agreeable  people  I  liave  ever  met  with — 
as  delightful  as  his  own  most  delightful  books. — He  tells 
me  he  has  never  visited  either  Mexico  or  Peru.  I  am  sur- 
prised that  the  interest  in  his  own  matchless  works  did  not 
impel  him  to  go  to  both." 

I  agree  with  her,  it  does  indeed  seem  strange. 

But  what  really  interests  me  is  a  sidetrack  in  which  she 
launches  out  in  opinions  about  Russia.  She  writes :  "There 
are  but  few  Russian  visitors  here  in  New  York,  it  seems; 
but  I  am  very  much  struck  by  the  apparent  entente-cordiale 
that  exists  between  Russia  and  the  United  States.  There 
seems  an  inexplicable  instinct  of  sympathy,  some  mysterious 
magnetism  at  work,  which  is  drawing  by  degrees  these  two 
mighty  nations  into  closer  contact.  Napoleon,  we  know, 
prophesied  that  the  world,  ere  long,  would  be  either  Cossack 
or  Republican.  .  .  .  I  cannot  resist  dwelling  a  little  on  this 
interesting  subject:  Russia  is  certainly  the  grand  respre- 
scntative  pf  despotic  principles,  as  the  U.  S.  are  the  repre- 
sentatives of  democratic  ones.  How  is  it  that  these  antagon- 
istic principles,  embodied  in  these  two  mighty  governments, 
allow  them  to  be  so  friendly  and  cordial  towards  one  an- 
x 


INTRODUCTION 

other?  .  .  .  Russia  and  the  U.  S.  are  the  two  young  giant 
nations  of  the  world  .  .  .  The  Leviathans  of  the  lands! ,.,  .  . 
These  two  grand  young  nations  are  strong  to  the  race,  and 
fresh  to  the  glorious  contest.  Far  off  in  the  future,  centuries 
and  ages  beyond  this  present  hour,  is  the  culminating  point. 
What  to  other  Nations  may  be  work  and  labor,  to  them  is 
but,  as  it  were,  healthful  relaxation,  the  exercising  of  their 
mammoth  limbs,  the  quickening  of  the  mighty  current  of 
their  buoyant  and  bounding  life-blood,  the  conscious  enjoy- 
ment of  their  own  inexhaustible  vitality.  There  is  much 
similarity,  in  short,  in  the  position  of  these  two  vast  powers. 
.  .  .  She  (Russia)  has  plenty  of  time,  too,  before  her — 
she  can  watch  and  she  can  wait  .   .   ." 

If  Lady  Emmeline  had  had  an  American  mother,  to  help 
her  to  be  just  a  little  less  English  and  a  little  less  class- 
conscious,  she  might  have  evolved  into  quite  an  emancipated 
thinker! 

I  cannot  help  wishing  that  she,  too,  had  kept  a  diary,  in- 
stead of  compiling  her  book  from  letters  "after  adding  some- 
what, to  give  them  the  usual  narrative  form,"  as  she  says 
in  the  preface.  Consequently  one  loses  many  of  the  little 
details  often  illustrative  or  human  that  only  a  daily  diary 
can  remember  to  record.  Following  her  travels,  I  see  that 
at  Vera  Cruz  she  probably  stayed  in  the  same  hotel,  "In 
the  great  Plaza,  almost  close  to  the  fine  old  Cathedral."  In 
comparison  with  our  experience  at  Vera  Cruz  hers  was  not 
so  very  unlike.  They  "ran  into  a  Norther"  which  relieved 
them  of  the  expected  heat,  but  "in  spite  of  all  our  pre- 
cautions in  the  night,  our  balcony-doors  blew  open,  and  my 
little  girl  and  I  were  almost  blown  away,  beds  and  all." 

Her  journey  to  Mexico  City  is  by  stage  coach;  "not  far 
from  this  spot  is  the  beginning  of  a  railroad,  which,  say 
the  Americans,  may  perhaps  be  finished  in  500  years.  It 
is  intended  to  be  carried  on  to  Mexico."  No  doubt  it  would 
have  taken  500  years,  but  that  an  English  company  "butted 

XI 


INTRODUCTION 

in"  and  so  I  have  been  privileged  less  than  100  years  later 
to  travel  to  Mexico  on  that  railway.  It  can  only  be  said, 
in  comparison,  that  her  discomforts  were  more  prolonged. 

Arrived  in  Mexico,  we  have  a  similar  experience  when 
visiting  Chapultepec  Castle :  f(The  commandant  came  for- 
ward and  very  courteously  asked  if  we  would  like  to  see 
the  views  from  the  flat  roof  of  the  castle.  .  .  .  What  a 
Paradise  world  we  saw  .  .  .,  etc."  and  we  have  both  seen 
the  same  thing,  and  thought  the  same  thing,  only  in  different 
words.  Lady  Emmeline  has  a  more  fragrant  style.  She 
makes  an  effort,  on  occasions,  to  describe  scenes  that  surpass 
mere  words:  "But  it  is  not,  after  all,  so  much  the  scene 
itself,  as  the  great  and  boundless  story  the  imagination  ever 
lends  it;  for  the  soul  once  awakened,  and  stirred  and  thrilled 
by  the  sight  of  that  magnificent  scenery,  makes  it  ten 
thousand  fold  more  glorious.  .  .  .  "  There  is  much  more 
of  this. 

On  her  way  to  Puebla  she  describes  how  "we  soon  came 
in  sight  of  the  wonderful  and  huge  pyramid  of  Cholula,  built 
by  the  Aztecs;  it  is  supposed  as  a  Teocali.  A'  temple  to 
Queatzalcoatl  formerly  stood  on  it,  but  now  it  is 
crowned  by  a  Christian  Chapel  dedicated  to  the  Madonna. 
.  .  .  With  regard  to  this  extraordinary  pyramid,  I  think 
the  people  who  could  be  bold  enough  to  become  mountain- 
builders  within  sight  of  those  stupendous  volcanoes,  Popo- 
catapetl  and  Itaccihuatl  and  so  many  other  mighty  moun- 
tains, deserve  much  praise  for  their  almost  sublime  audacity 

These  were  exactly  my  sentiments  and  I  must  thank 
Lady  Emmeline  for  having  spared  me  the  writing  of  my 
own  introduction.  I  curtsey  to  her  very  charming  ghost 
and  my  great  regret  is  that  our  paths  divide.  I  cannot 
follow  her  to  Peru,  whither  she  goes  from  Mexico;  and  she 
cannot  accompany  me  to  Los  Angeles,  nor  shake  with  me 
the  hand  of  Charlie  Chaplin. 

XII 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

FEBRUARY  2,  1921.      The  Biltmore,  New  York:-    - 

What  a  funny  life!  1  do  not  know  myself,  -nor 
what  I  have  become,  and  yet  when  I  look'  in*  the* 
glass  I  am  the  same. 

I  seem  to  be  a  machine — I  have  no  soul ;  rapidly 
I  am  losing  all  mind. 

From  morning  till  night  newspaper  reporters 
ask  me  questions,  I  am  told  I  have  to  submit — if  I 
were  impatient  or  cross  they  would  write  some- 
thing nasty.  So  I  am  amiable!  I  go  on  talking  the 
same  stuff  about  Lenin  and  Trotzky!  How  they 
would  laugh  if  they  could  hear  me! 

I've  been  photographed  in  this  room,  over  and 
over;  by  flashlight,  by  electric  light,  by  day-light. 
In  day  dress,  in  evening  dress,  in  Russian  head 
dress,  in  work  dress,  with  child,  with  roses,  and 
so  on! 

I  go  out  to  lunch  with  a  reporter  in  the  taxi — 
and  what  luncheons :  hen  luncheons  in  Fifth  Ave- 
nue! Lovely  women  with  bare  white  chests,  pearls, 
and  tulle  sleeves — never  saw  such  clothes — and 
apparently  all  for  themselves.  There  is  never  a 
man.  They  even  pay  one  another  compliments. 
I  wonder  if  they  can  be  contented.  Today  I 
lunched  with  Rose  Post,  who  is  a  great  kind  dear. 

13 


f] 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

I  had  a  very  pleasant  woman  on  my  right,  but  on 
my  left  was  a  Mrs.  Butler,  whose  husband  is  presi- 
dent of  Columbia  University.  She  wouldn't  speak 
to  me-— she  couldn't  bear  even  to  look  at  me.  1 
;  expect  she  thought  I  was  a  Bolshevik.  I  went 
from  there  to  see  Mrs.  Otto  Kahn.  She  received 
me  among  Boticelli's  and  tapestries.  It  was  a 
beautiful  room,  and  one  had  a  feeling  of  repose. 
Money  can  buy  beautiful  things,  but  it  cannot  buy 
atmosphere,  and  that  was  of  her  own  creating.  It 
felt  very  restful ;  just  for  a  while  I  was  in  Italy  .  .  . ! 
She  dropped  me  at  the  VANITY  Fair  Office,  and 
I  went  up  to  the  fifteenth  floor  and  saw  Mr. 
Crowninshield  and  Mr.  Conde  Nast,  editors  re- 
spectively of  Vanity  Fair  and  Vogue.  I  knew 
them  in  London. 

Mr.  Heywood  Broun,  dramatic  critic,  was  there. 
He  seemed  to  have  that  rather  Latin  humor,  which 
is  "moqueur." 

They  were  all  very  humorous,  and  there  is  a 
good  deal  to  be  humorous  about  at  this  moment, 
where  I  am  concerned! 

"Crownie"  was  an  angel;  he  and  Mr.  Nast  de- 
cided to  give  a  dinner  for  me.  A  "fun"  dinner,  all 
of  people  who  "do"  things,  what  he  called  "tight 
rope  dancers"  and  "high  divers"— not  social 
swells !  He  offers  me  a  peace  room  to  write  in — a 
lawyer  to  protect  me,  and  advances  of  money! 
Truly  I  have  good  friends! 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

At  six  when  I  got  back  to  the  Biltmore,  Colin 
Agnew,  whose  firm  gave  me  an  exhibition  in  Lon- 
don last  year,  rushed  in — he  goes  to  England  on  the 
Aquitania  tomorrow;  he  says  I  may  have  the  firm's 
flat  on  East  55th  St.  till  April!  What  a  godsend: 
a  private  place  in  which  to  lay  my  weary  head,  and 
a  home  for  Dick.  How  happy  I  shall  be!  Colin 
says  the  only  trouble  is  that  the  heating  apparatus 
occasionally  breaks  down.  This  is  good  news,  for 
central  heating  is  asphyxiating.  If  I  open  the 
windows  I  freeze,  and  if  I  shut  them  I  suffocate. 
Dick  drinks  ice  water  all  day  and  says  he  likes 
America! 

At  ten  thirty  P.M.  I  was  called  to  the  telephone 
by  a  man  who  said  he  was  Russian,  and  member 
of  an  art  club,  and  asked  if  he  might  come  and 
fetch  me  there  and  then,  to  take  me  down  to  the 
club,  as  the  members  would  so  appreciate  me,  and 
he  thought  I  should  be  interested  .  .  . !  I  told  him 
I  wasn't  going  off  in  a  taxi  at  that  hour  with  any 
strange  man ! 

February  4,  1921. 

I  dined  with  the  Rosens,  and  McEvoy  was  there, 
also  Mr.  Louis  Wiley,  Manager  of  the  New  York 
Times.  I  left  hurriedly  so  as  to  be  at  the  Aeolian 
Hall  in  plenty  of  time.  The  lecture  was  at  8:30. 
I  found  Mr.  Heywood  Broun  there.  He  had  con- 
sented to  introduce  me  and  did  so  by  a  most  charm- 

15 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

ing  and  flattering  speech  which,  as  I  am  a  stranger, 
I  appreciated  very  much.  An  American  audience 
is  very  quick  and  full  of  humor.  They  are  on  the 
idea  before  one  has  had  time  to  get  to  it  oneself. 

I  began  by  pointing  out  the  difficulties  of  the 
situation.  First  of  all,  I  said,  my  severest  critic  is 
in  the  house,  he  has  heard  me  speak  before,  and 
he  has  insisted  on  being  present  tonight, — his  years 
are  five,  and  if  he  goes  to  sleep,  I  shall  know  my 
lecture  has  been  dull!  (Everyone  looked  towards 
Dick!) 

When  I  told  of  my  arrival  in  Moscow  and  that 
Mrs.  Kameneff  met  us  and  upbraided  him — they 
never  gave  me  a  chance  to  finish  my  sentence.  The 
whole  house  laughed,  and  went  on  laughing,  and 
they  laughed  all  the  more  at  my  discomfiture! 
When  the  laughter  subsided  I  then  finished,  I  said 
that  she  upbraided  him  for  having  brought  an 
artist  half  across  Europe,  to  do  portraits  at  such  a 
critical  period,  and  Kameneff  replied  that  he 
simply  did  not  agree  with  her. 

Of  course  there  was  a  large  Radical  element, 
and  so  I  got  a  good  reception;  they  were  sympa- 
thetic. I  didn't  realize  they  were  radicals  and  in- 
terpreted it  as  sympathy  from  the  good  New 
Yorkers.  Whatever  element  it  was  they  were  tol- 
erant and  encouraging.  When  I  began  about 
Trotzky  I  forgot  my  audience,  and  got  carried 
away,  I  seemed  to  have  touched  the  magnetic  cord 
16 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

to  Moscow,  straight  to  Trotzky!  I  described  this 
man  of  wit,  fire  and  genius — I  talked  of  him  as  a 
Napoleon  of  peace!  And  then,  suddenly  remem- 
bering, I  pulled  myself  together,  hesitated  and 
said  I  wouldn't  say  any  more  about  Trotzky! 
There  were  shouts  of  "go  on!"  This  must  have 
come  from  the  radical  element — but  I  was  too 
wrought  up  and  fevered  to  think  politically. 

When  it  was  over,  Dick  joined  me  on  the  stage 
amid  applause — people  came  to  the  footlights,  and 
I  went  down  on  my  knees  to  talk  to  my  friends  who 
came  to  the  edge.  Afterwards,  on  the  way  out, 
scores  of  people  of  all  kinds  surrounded  me.  One, 
a  woman  with  a  tragic  and  strong  face,  said,  "Let 
me  thank  you  for  being  so  fair  and  unprejudiced. 
I  am  a  Communist,  I  have  not  yet  served  my  sen- 
tence .  .  ."  Her  face  was  convulsed  with  emotion 
and  traces  of  suffering  .  .  .  there  are  martyr  fan- 
atics. 

The  more  I  look  back  on  what  I've  done,  the 
more  it  frightens  me.  I  wonder  how  I  ever  skated 
on  thin  ice  as  I  did. 

February  5,  1921. 

Moved  into  the  flat.  It  is  uncomfortable  but  I 
shall  get  it  right.  We  are  three  people  and  two 
beds,  Dick  has  to  sleep  on  the  sofa  in  my  room. 
The  telephone  is  cut  off,  and  the  heat  does  not 

17 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

seem  to  work,  but  for  these  two  latter  items  one  is 
thankful  1 

Griffin  Barry,  who  used  to  be  the  Russian  cor- 
respondent of  the  London  Daily  Herald,  came 
to  fetch  me,  and  took  me  I  don't  know  where,  to  a 
studio  belonging  to  Miss  Bessie  Beatty  who  has 
written  a  book  on  the  Russian  Revolution.  There 
were  a  lot  of  people  but  I  only  knew  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bullitt;  he  has  been  to  Russia  and  she  is  very  beau- 
tiful. I  met  Mr.  Kenneth  Durant,  who  is  left  in 
charge  of  the  Soviet  office  in  the  absence  of  Mar- 
tens. He  has  an  extremely  interesting,  rather  faun- 
like head.  We  all  sat  around  the  room  with  plates 
on  our  laps  and  were  fed.  It  was  primitive  but  an 
extremely  good  idea,  and  one  I  shall  adopt  if  ever 
I  want  to  give  a  bigger  party  in  my  studio  than  I 
have  table  space  for. 

A  certain  amount  of  politics  was  talked  after- 
wards, in  which  I  dared  not  join.  In  conservative 
circles  I  dare  not  talk  politics  for  fear  of  being 
called  Bolshevik.  In  Bolshevik  circles  I  keep  silent 
for  fear  they  discover  how  ignorant  I  am!  Durant 
left  early,  and  I  had  no  chance  of  talking  with  him. 
He  has  rather  an  enigmatic  smile,  and  says  very 
little. 

Sunday,  February  6,  1921. 

Dick  and  I  spent  most  of  the  day  out  at  Yonkers 
with  our  cousin,  Travers  Jerome,  Jr.,  and  his 
18 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY      . 

wife,  Joy,  who  is  very  good  looking.  The  boy 
child  is  of  the  type  that  mine  and  Shane  Leslie's 
are,  so  I  suppose  it's  the  Jerome  blood!  My  Ameri- 
can family  seem  to  be  very  nice.  Mama  often 
wanted  to  talk  about  them,  but  we  never  would  let 
her! 

I  dined  with  Maxine  Elliot,  and  had  on  one  side 
of  me  Mr.  George  Creel,  and  on  the  other  Mr. 
Swope.  The  latter  is  the  editor  of  The  World, 
but  I  did  not  know  it  at  first  or  I  might  not  have 
said  some  of  the  things  I  did.  There  is  a  type  of 
American!  What  force,  what  energy  ("dynamic," 
I  said  of  him  to  someone.  "No— cyclonic!"  they 
corrected) !  I  asked  him,  when  I  was  able  to  get 
a  word  in  edgeways,  how  he  manages  to  revitalize, 
he  seemed  to  me  to  expend  so  much  energy.  He 
said  he  got  it  back  from  me,  from  everyone,  that 
what  he  gives  out  he  gets  back,  it  is  a  sort  of  circle. 
He  was  so  vibrant  that  I  found  my  heart  thumping 
with  excitement  as  though  I  had  drunk  cham- 
pagne, which  I  hadn't!  He  talks  a  lot  but  talks 
well,  is  never  dull.  .  .  . 

In  England  one  hesitates  to  accept  to  dine  out 
unless  one  is  very  sure  who  is  going  to  be  there. 
Here  one  can  go  at  random,  it  may  be  strange,  it 
may  be  incomprehensible,  but  never  is  it  dull!  I 
wonder  if  it  is  simply  the  novelty  of  the  first  weeks 
in  America,  or  is  it  the  interest  of  continually  ex- 
ploring new  people — ? 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

Monday,  February  7,  1921.    13  East  55/A  Street. 

Mr.  Wiley  sent  his  secretary  and  his  car  to  con- 
vey me  to  the  Times  office.  There  in  the  building 
we  lunched,  and  I  was  the  only  woman  with  seven 
men,  all  of  them  interesting.  (An  improvement 
on  Fifth  Avenue  with  seven  women!)  Mr.  Miller, 
Mr.  Ochs,  Mr.  Ogden,  and  so  on,  it  was  rather 
alarming,  but  they  gave  me  orchids.  I  was  asked 
a  good  many  questions  about  Russia,  some  of  them 
economic,  which  I  longed  to  be  able  to  answer,  and 
cursed  my  mind  for  not  working  on  those  lines.  I 
was  told  that  Russia  had  nothing  to  trade  with,  a 
limited  supply  of  gold;  furs  that  were  motheaten, 
grain  that  was  rotten,  aluminium  that  was  full  of 
alloy.  I  could  not  dispute  these  assertions,  know- 
ing nothing  about  it,  but  I  had  to  laugh,  it  seemed 
to  end  the  argument!  After  lunch  I  was  shown 
the  machinery  which  is  too  marvelous  and  com- 
plicated for  words.  I  don't  see  how  a  newspaper 
ever  gets  printed  in  a  day.  Upstairs  in  the  illustrat- 
ing part,  I  caught  sight  of  myself  on  a  copper 
plate.  I  had  not  expected  this.  They  printed  one 
for  me,  and  it  came  out  all  folded  and  still  hot  at 
the  other  end.    Too  marvelous! 

I  dined  at  a  big  dinner  given  for  me  at  the 
Coffee  House  Club  by  Mr.  Crowninshield  and  Mr. 
Conde  Nast.  I  sat  next  to  Paul  Manship,  whose 
work  I  have  known  for  some  time.  Mr.  Bullitt 
and  Mrs.  Whitney,  the  sculptor,  sat  opposite. 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

Maxine  Eliott  was  at  my  table,  and  Mr.  Harrison 
Rhodes,  the  writer,  who  has  been  described  to  me 
as  "precieux"  but  I  like  him.  He  is  more  European 
than  anyone  I  have  met.  We  were  four  big  tables 
full,  and  there  were  speeches  after.  Mr.  Crown- 
inshield  in  an  even  quiet  voice  was  very  funny. 

Lopokova,  the  exquisite  little  Russian  dancer 
whom  London  adores,  spoke  in  Russian.  She  said 
she  believed  in  Russia  and  believed  in  me!  After 
dinner  they  played  charades.  Mr.  Crowninshield 
and  I  did  Trotzky.  It  was  to  be  in  three  acts. 
First,  I  was  to  be  a  trotting  horse,  and  he  driving 
me.  Second,  we  were  to  ski,  and  fall  down.  Third, 
he  was  to  harangue  the  Red  Army  and  I  was  to 
throw  my  arms  round  his  neck  and  passionately 
embrace  him,  but  Maxine  guessed  it  at  the  second 
act,  so  Mr.  Crowninshield  was  done  out  of  his 
Trotzky  kiss. 

Tuesday,  February  8,  1921. 

Paul  Manship  called  for  me  and  took  me  to  his 
studio  which  is  near  Washington  Square  in  a  side 
alley  that  used  to  contain  stables.  The  moment 
one  turned  into  that  side  alley  one  had  left  New 
York!  He  has  a  beautiful  studio  and  house,  and  his 
work  is  modern  and  archaic  and  has  a  great  sense 
of  design.  It  interested  me  to  discover  how  he 
gets  his  surfaces  and  the  feeling  of  the  thing  be- 

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ing  carved;  this  is  done  by  working  on  the  plaster. 
He  is  going  to  have  an  exhibition  in  London  at  the 
Leicester  Galleries  in  the  spring.  I  shall  be  very 
interested  to  know  the  result.  I  am  sorry  for  the 
artist  who  goes  from  here  to  London,  instead  of 
from  London  here. 

I  dined  with  Mr.  Archer  Huntington  in  the 
most  lovely  house.  A  real  man's  house,  no  knick- 
knacks.  There  were  some  Goya's  that  arrested 
one's  attention. 

We  were  a  small  party,  or  else  the  house  was  so 
big,  and  we  all  seemed  rather  English  and  talked 
low  and  there  was  a  calm  that  was  unlike  New 
York.  I  found  my  host  treated  me  rather  like 
Lenin  did,  smilingly  and  lightly,  as  if  I  were  not 
very  serious.  But  he  takes  me  seriously  evidently, 
for  he  is  arranging  an  exhibition  for  me  at  the 
Museum  of  the  American  Numesmatic  Society. 

Wednesday,  February  9,  1921. 

I  spent  a  quiet  day,  as  it  was  my  lecture  after- 
noon. I  suffer  so  beforehand  that  I  am  almost  ex- 
hausted. 

My  audience,  it  being  the  afternoon,  was  of  a 
different  type.  There  were  more  women  and 
fewer  Radicals.  They  were  less  light  in  hand  and 
more  serious.  I  find  I  take  my  mood  from  my 
audience,  and  the  psychology  of  an  audience  seems 
to  vary.  Mr.  Edwin  Markham,  the  poet  who 
wrote  "The  Man  With  the  Hoe,"  introduced  me 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 


and  sat  by  my  side  on  the  stage  during  the  lecture. 
He  has  a  head  rather  like  Longfellow. 

Afterwards  some  of  the  audience  came  down  to 
the  reception  room,  Lopokova  who  was  there  told 
me  I  had  done  well,  and  embraced  me  quite  emo- 
tionally. I  was  glad  to  get  that  opinion  from  her. 
People  came  and  asked  me  all  kinds  of  questions 
and  one,  a  formidable  looking  woman  in  a  leather 
coat,  asked  if  I  was  in  favor  of  the  same  methods 
prevailing  here  as  in  Moscow.  I  was  very  indig- 
nant and  said  she  had  no  right  to  ask  me  such  a 
direct  political  question,  that  it  was  unjustifiable. 
She  apologized  and  melted  away.  Travers  Jerome 
and  his  mother  then  rescued  me  and  took  me  some- 
where quickly  to  tea. 

It  is  a  curious  thing  how  people  without  imagi- 
nation can  waylay  one  both  on  one's  way  in  and  on 
one's  way  out  from  lecturing,  trying  to  fix  some 
social  engagement.  On  the  way  in  one  is  absorbed 
by  the  thought  of  what  one  is  going  to  say.  On 
the  way  out  one  is  too  weary  to  exert  one's  mind 
in  such  a  direction. 

Yet  people  are  very  kind.  I  don't  know  if  they 
love  me  or  are  interested  in  Russia.  I  should  think 
neither. 

Mr.  Liveright,  my  publisher,  fetched  me  and 
took  me  to  the  Ritz  where  we  dined  with  Mr. 
Pulitzer,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Swope,  and  Mr.  B.  M. 
Baruch.    Mr.  Pulitzer  looks  much  too  young  to  be 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

the  owner  of  The  World  and  has  the  face  of  a  well 
bred  Englishman.  Mr.  Baruch  (whose  name  I 
mistook  for  Brooke)  has  white  hair,  fine  features 
and  stands  6  ft.  4.  I  gathered  from  the  general 
conversation  that  I  was  talking  to  someone  whom  I 
should  have  heard  of,  and  as  I  could  think  of  no 
distinguished  Brooke  but  Rupert  Brooke  the  poet, 
I  asked  if  he  was  related.  And  then  Mr.  Baruch 
rather  reprovingly  spelt  his  name  for  me.  In- 
stantly by  a  faint  glimmer  of  memory  "Wall 
Street"  came  to  my  mind,  and  I  seemed  to  have 
heard  in  London  that  he  was  a  friend  of  Winston. 
He  was  interesting  and  unprejudiced.  Most  of 
these  brilliant  men  are  unprejudiced  about  Russia 
when  one  talks  to  them  individually.  It  is  the  same 
in  England. 

They  took  me  to  the  first  night  of  the  Mid- 
night Frolic.  This  seemed  to  be  in  a  theatre  that 
never  stops.  It  was  with  some  difficulty  disgorg- 
ing the  people  who  had  just  witnessed  the  eve- 
ning performance  and  struggling  to  let  in  the  peo- 
ple who  were  arriving  for  the  midnight  show.  It 
was  a  strange  place,  a  sort  of  dancing  supper 
restaurant,  where  a  stage  rolled  out  and  the  artists 
walked  about  and  danced  and  sang  "familiar"-like 
among  the  people.  I  suppose  it  appeals  awfully  to 
the  mankind.  Such  an  arrangement  would  be 
a  huge  success  in  London.  The  actresses  were 
pretty,  well  dressed,  and  show  after  show  suc- 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

ceeded  one  another  in  rapid  procession,  leaving  one 
bewildered  and  almost  breathless.  We  stayed  far 
into  the  night,  but  it  was  still  going  strong  when 
we  went  away.  I  wonder  if  that  is  where  the  busy 
American  business  man  goes  when  his  day's  work 
is  done.  If  so,  he  reminds  me  of  Tchicherin's  pro- 
posed secretary,  who  "works  during  the  day,  sc 
he  is  free  at  night  .  .  ." 

Thursday,  February  io,  1921. 

Lunched  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Whigham.  He  is 
the  editor  of  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  and  is  a  Scotch- 
man. It  was  one  of  the  nicest  parties  I've  been  to, 
absolutely  after  my  own  heart.  I  sat  next  to  Jo 
Davidson,  whom  I'd  wanted  to  meet,  Mrs.  Whit- 
ney was  there,  and  McEvoy  and  Mr.  Harrison 
Rhodes  and  Guardiabasse,  the  singer  and  painter. 
All  were  people  who  do  things. 

Mr.  Davidson  astonished  me.  I  had  expected 
someone  very  American,  but  he  looks  like  a  black- 
bearded  Bolshevik,  speaks  French  like  a  French- 
man, and  speaks  it  preferably,  and  has  lived  for 
years  in  Moscow.  He  is  just  a  typical  interna- 
tional. He  has  a  keen  sense  of  humor,  cosmopoli- 
tan manners,  and  the  American  quick  grasp  of 
things.  I  found  myself -talking  to  him  as  if  we  had 
known  each  other  all  our  lives.  He  said  laugh- 
ingly that  he  had  read  my  diary  in  the  Times  and 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

had  hated  me  from  that  moment.  Hated  me  for 
having  done  this  thing!  He  said  of  course  he 
would  have  done  it  if  the  chance  had  come  his  way, 
but  we  agreed  that  it  was  a  woman's  chance. 
Trotzky  never  would  have  been  good  with  any- 
one but  me!  We  think  we'll  go  back  there  to- 
gether, hand  in  hand. 

I  went  away  with  McEvoy,  and  on  the  way 
down  in  the  lift  he  said,  "What  a  nice  party  that 
was,  quite  like  England!"  I  agreed,  and  the  half 
suppressed  giggle  of  the  lift  boy  roused  me  to  add 
for  his  benefit  that  we  meant  it  as  a  compliment. 
I  wonder  if  the  lift  boy  by  any  chance  was  Irish! 

February  ii,  1921. 

I  had  a  Christian  Herald  reporter  at  eleven, 
and  two  American  Hebrew  reporters  at  twelve. 
They  were  all  of  them  intelligent.  Then  Hugo  K. 
turned  up  in  the  middle  of  it  all,  and  I  just  aban- 
doned the  Hebrews.  I  took  H.  to  lunch  with  Mr. 
Liveright  and  two  gentlemen  of  the  film  indus- 
try. I  believe  they  wanted  to  see  my  face.  I  do 
not  believe  it  lends  itself  to  filming  and  I  am  much 
too  big,  but  still  it  was  interesting  to  meet  them 
and  one  got  a  new  point  of  view. 

I  dined  with  the  Misses  Cooper  Hewitt,  daugh- 
ters of  Abram  Hewitt,  once  Mayor  of  New  York, 
quite  a  different  atmosphere  from  any  other  in  New 
York).  Real  old  world,  and  most  of  the  people  I 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

met  talked  to  me  about  my  family,  remembered 
my  grandfather  and  seemed  to  have  loved  my  aunts. 

February  12,  1921. 

Finished  my  introduction  for  "Mayfair  to  Mos- 
cow" at  one  o'clock  while  Mr.  Liveright's  mes- 
senger waited  in  the  hall  for  it. 

At  eight  I  dined  with  Mr.  Wiley,  and  found  my 
own  photograph  framed  between  Lenin's  and 
Trotzky's.  A  delicate  compliment  which  I  ap- 
preciated and  no  one  else  noticed!  The  party  con- 
sisted of  the  Gerards,  Col.  and  Mrs.  House,  the 
Walter  Rosens,  Arthur  Pollen,  the  English  naval 
expert,  and  some  others.  Pollen  held  the  table  for 
some  time  on  the  subject  of  disarmament  and  the 
attitude  of  England,  and  was  rather  dogmatic.  It 
was  impossible  to  argue  as  he  raised  his  voice  and 
seemed  to  resent  controversy.  I  sat  next  to  Mr. 
Gerard  and  felt  he  was  still  the  distinguished  con- 
spicuous U.  S.  Ambassador  to  Berlin  of  1916 — but 
he  is  like  a  war  book — one  has  lost  interest.  He 
told  us,  however,  that  Mr.  Harding  had  told  him 
that  he  means  to  invite  the  European  premiers  to 
Washington  to  confer  on  peace.  Everyone  seemed 
agreed  that  it  was  a  grand  idea ;  everyone  seemed 
agreed  also  that  it  was  madness  to  have  so  utterly 
destroyed  the  Central  Powers.  There  was  a  gen- 
eral "down"  on  France. 

Mr.  Pollen  was  right  about  the  crumbling  Eu- 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

rope  and  the  necessity  for  peace  and  agreement  all 
round. 

After  dinner  I  had  a  little  talk  with  Col.  House 
whom  I  found  very  sane-minded  about  Russia. 

He  agreed  with  me  that  I  was  right  not  to  be 
drawn  into  political  arguments,  as  he  said  it  would 
do  no  good,  and  I  would  be  misunderstood. 

February  13,  1921. 

I  lunched  with  "The  Kingfisher"  as  we  call  Mrs. 
Cornelius  Vanderbilt  in  London!  I  was  rather 
disappointed  with  her  Fifth  Avenue  Palazzo,  it 
does  not  compare  with  the  Otto  Kahns  and  has 
not  the  atmosphere.  There  was  a  beautiful  Turner 
in  one  of  the  drawing  rooms,  and  a  gallery  full  of 
Corots  and  Millets,  but  they  were  not  very  inter- 
esting or  decorative,  or  else  there  were  too  many 
of  them.  I  sat  next  to  my  host  whose  trim  beard 
and  uncommunicative,  rather  unsmiling  counte- 
nance reminded  me  of  a  Bolshevik  type  that  I 
used  to  see  at  the  Kremlin  table  d'hote.  He  only 
needed  shabby  clothes  and  his  beard  a  little  less 
trim.  It  made  me  think  how  good  looking  some 
of  the  Bolsheviks  would  be  if  they  were  million- 
aires. 

After  lunch  when  the  women  left  the  dining 
room  some  one  hazarded  a  remark  to  the  effect 
that  the  big  rooms  were  pleasant  with  nobody  in 
them.  Our  hostess  said  that  was  not  an  idea  with 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

which  she  was  in  sympathy,  that  she  thought  a  big 
house  should  be  full  of  people  and  as  many  enjoy 
it  as  possible,  "whatever  I  have  I  want  to  share," 
she  said,  and  then  turning  to  me,  "Please  tell  that 
to  the  Bolsheviks — "  I  asked  her  why  I  should  con- 
vey any  such  message, — she  evidently  mistook  me 
for  a  messenger  of  the  gods.  Then  suddenly,  con- 
versation drifted  onto  me  and  my  plans.  I  was 
asked  if  when  I  returned  I  was  going  to  live  in 
Ireland,  hadn't  my  father  got  a  place  there?  I 
answered  that  I  lived  where  there  was  work,  and, 
therefore,  I  might  remain  where  I  was,  or  go  to 
Russia.  Mrs.  Vanderbilt  looked  rather  surprised, 
and  asked  whether  Russia  paid  better  than  any 
other  country.  That  I  did  not  know,  but  certain 
it  is  that  any  country  pays  more  than  England! 
This  subject  of  payment  seemed  suddenly  to  excite 
her — ,  in  a  tremulously  querulous  voice,  whilst  the 
other  women  sat  silently,  I  stood  up  in  front  of  the 
fireplace  and  was  cross-questioned,  and  nagged  as 
to  that  payment.  Who  had  paid  me?  Had  Lenin 
and  Trotzky  paid  me?  What  did  I  call  govern- 
ment money?  Whose  money  was  it  and  where 
did  it  come  from?  I  said  I  did  not  know,  indeed 
I  felt  a  great  longing  to  be  able  to  explain  as  she 
seemed  so  keen — but  how  could  I  tell  where  the 
money  came  from  for  which  I  had  to  give  a  receipt 
to  the  "All  Russian  Central  Executive  Committee 
of  Soviets  .  .  ."  for  a  cheque  signed  Litvinoff, 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

(whose  bust  I  had  not  done)  for  payment  through 
a  Stockholm  bank? 

Mrs.  Vanderbilt  thought  it  was  dreadful,  and 
said  that  I  upset  her  very  much.  She  said  that  Mr. 
Wilson's  government  did  not  and  could  not  do 
things  like  that!  It  occurred  to  me  that  probably 
there  is  very  little  similarity  between  the  methods 
of  Mr.  Wilson's  government  and  those  of  the  Rus- 
sian Soviet,  but  who  can  prove  that  the  Wilson 
form  of  government  is  right  anyway? 

Altogether  it  was  rather  unpleasant,  and  I  left 
as  soon  as  I  could,  and  wondering,  as  I  walked 
home,  why  she  had  asked  me  to  her  house. 

I  fear  I  must  have  irritated  her  from  the  start, 
because  when  she  asked  me  to  lunch  there  was  no 
address  on  her  card,  and  no  telephone  number  in 
the  book;  so  when  I  answered  I  addressed  it  as 
best  I  could  to:  Mrs.  Cornelius  Vanderbilt,  New 
York,  adding  a  little  message:  "Please,  postman, 
deliver  this  somewhere  in  Fifth  Avenue." 

t 

February  14,  1921.  William  Penn  Hotel, 

Pittsburgh 
Ruth  Djirloff,  my  secretary,  waked  me  up  by 
telephoning  to  me  that  it  was  twenty  of  seven.  I 
do  dislike  that  Americanism  "of"  especially  when 
I  am  not  awake  and  I  have  to  make  a  special  ef- 
fort to  remember  if  "of"  means  before  or  after. 
Having  roused  myself  to  the  realization  that  it  was 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

twenty  to  seven,  I  waked  Louise,  who  got  some 
breakfast  for  me.  I  did  not  wake  Dick  and  was 
rather  glad  that  his  sleeping  gave  me  an  excuse 
not  to  say  goodbye  to  him.  It  is  easier  so.  I  have 
left  them  all  alone  in  the  flat,  just  those  two.  If 
Louise  died  in  the  night  how  would  anybody  know, 
and  how  would  Dick  get  out  or  make  anyone  hear? 
These  are  not  things  to  think  of.  Providence  will, 
I  know,  take  care  of  me  to  the  end. 

We  drove  to  a  railway  station  that  was  like  an 
opera  house  and  heated.  What  civilization — !  I 
should  think  the  poor  would  come  in  there  to  get 
out  of  the  cold.  Perhaps  they're  not  allowed;  or 
perhaps  like  me,  they  prefer  air.  We  caught  the 
8 105  train  to  Pittsburgh.  A  ten  hour  journey.  The 
train  was  very  comfortable  and  I  slept  most  of  the 
way  and  ate  nothing,  being  thankful  for  the  rest 
from  food.  I  read  most  of  "Men  and  Steel"  by 
Mary  Heaton  Vorse,  published  by  my  publisher. 
It  is  very  powerful,  and  conveys  its  force  through 
its  great  simplicity  and  crispness  of  style.  It  im- 
pressed me  tremendously  but  I  wished  I  had  not 
read  it  as  it  forms  my  judgment  for  me  before  I 
even  arrive. 

These  are  some  of  the  facts:  "72%  of  all  steel 
workers  are  below  the  level  set  by  government  ex- 
perts as  minimum  of  comfort  level  set  for  families 
of  five,"  which  means  that  three-quarters  of  the 
steel  workers  cannot  earn  enough  for  an  American 

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standard  of  living.  "In  1919  the  undivided  sur- 
plus was  $493,048,201.93,  or  $13,000,000  more  than 
the  total  wage  and  salary  expenditures"  of  the 
U.  S.  Steel  Corporation.  I  cannot  take  in  eco- 
nomics; if  I  discussed  this  with  a  capitalist  I 
should  have  refuting  statistics  thrown  at  my  head 
and  I  wouldn't  take  it  in.  But  I  wonder  why  it  is, 
that,  crudely  and  ignorantly,  I  always  feel  the 
workers'  point  of  view,  rather  than  the  employers. 
At  6:50,  on  my  arrival,  I  was  received  by  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Robinson  and  their  son,  who  are  man- 
agers in  the  firm  of  Heinz  Pickles,  57  varieties! 
Emil  Fuchs,  who  is  doing  a  Heinz  memorial, 
told  them  I  was  coming.  They  had  a  car  and 
drove  me  to  the  William  Penn  Hotel.  I  refused 
their  invitation  to  dinner  as  I  felt  rather  tired. 
After  dinner  some  reporters  came  to  see  me  in  my 
room.  Oh,  I  am  so  weary  of  the  same  questions 
about  Lenin  and  Trotzky!  I  wish  I  dared  tell 
them  what  I  really  think. 

February  15,  1921. 

Mrs.  Robinson  fetched  me  at  ten  A.M.  and 
took  me  first  for  a  drive  in  the  town  and  then  to 
the  Heinz  factory.  The  town  is  built  at  the  junc- 
tion of  two  rivers,  so  it  can  only  spread  up  and  not 
out.  The  sun  was  struggling  to  break  through  the 
mist  of  grime  caused  by  the  factory  smokes.  Mrs. 
Robinson  apologized  for  the  lack  of  beauty  of  the 
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town.  She  was  wrong,  it  was  terribly  beautiful. 
Everything  looked  like  a  Whistler  picture,  but  of 
course  there  is  no  color,  no  nature,  and  one  longs 
for  these  things  after  a  time. 

When  we  drove  to  the  Heinz  factory  we  went 
in  first  to  the  Administration  Building;  the  hall 
of  which  is  lined  with  marble,  has  marble  columns, 
a  fountain  in  the  middle,  marble  busts  on  pedestals 
all  around,  and  a  frieze  by  an  English  artist,  rep- 
resenting the  various  Heinz  processes.  Mr.  Rob- 
inson came  and  appointed  a  guide  to  show  us  all 
over.  It  is  the  first  factory  I  have  ever  seen  that 
was  interesting.  It  really  is  wonderful  to  see  the 
flat  piece  of  tin  go  into  the  machine,  become  round 
and  soldered,  move  along  to  have  its  bottom  put 
on,  and  without  stopping,  go  careering  along  over- 
head and  down  to  the  next  floor  to  be  mechanically 
filled  with  baked  beans,  and  have  its  lid  put  on. 
From  the  moment  the  flat  piece  of  tin  gets  into 
the  machine  to  the  moment  when  it  is  sealed  up 
full  is  four  and  a  quarter  minutes.  The  tin  manu- 
facturing room  was  delightful,  little  bright,  glist- 
ening, shining  tins,  ran,  rolled  and  leapt,  as  it 
seemed,  overhead  and  all  round,  dancing  fairy- 
like to  the  music  and  hum  of  the  machinery.  The 
space  over  one's  head  was  full  of  them,  impelled 
in  different  directions  at  different  speeds  on  differ- 
ent levels,  on  little  iron  ways.  The  process  itself 
interested  me,  but  when  I  had  grasped  the  process, 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

I  just  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  hall  and  gave  way 
to  the  impression  of  the  whole,  and  it  had  the  ef- 
fect of  making  me  laugh  outright,  it  was  so  ridicu- 
lously joyous. 

Mr.  Robinson's  son,  who  is  foreman  in  one  of 
the  departments,  led  me  to  a  window  and  pointed 
out  a  little  one-storied  house  in  which  Trotzky 
had  lived  and  had  a  newspaper  plant.  Trotzky 
must  have  been  a  long  time  over  here  to  have  in- 
habited all  the  houses  that  claim  him! 

It  was  now  twenty  of  one  o'clock  A.M.  I  have 
just  returned  from  a  marvelous  evening  at  the 
Chalfont  Steel  Pipe  works.  I  dined  with  Miss 
Chalfont.  She  had  asked  me  whether  I'd  like  a 
big  party  or  not.  I  said  I'd  like  to  go  to  see  the 
works,  so  she  arranged  that  no  one  should  dress  for 
dinner  and  we  went,  a  party  of  seven,  first  to  the 
"residence"  where  the  welfare  workers  live — a 
very  nice  house  indeed — (there  were  three  repro- 
ductions of  Gainsborough  and  Reynold's  pictures 
of  the  "Beautiful  Mrs.  Sheridan").  Then  to  the 
cinema  which  is  for  the  workers,  and  then  to  see 
the  mill. 

I  have  come  away  with  a  feeling  of  bewilder- 
ment .  .  .  the  noise,  the  power,  the  heat,  men  who 
did   not  seem   to   count  worked   machinery   that  " 
seemed  human. 

It  was  terrible  when  a  lever  opened  the  furnace 
door  and  a  giant  red  hot  tube  like  a  gun  barrel  was 

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gently  but  firmly  impelled  along  by  iron  fingers 
and  pushed  into  the  fire  mouth  upon  which  a  door 
closed.  It  was  relentless— like  the  hand  of  Destiny. 
When  the  cylinder  came  out  at  the  other  end 
and  passed  through  a  fountain  of  cold  water,  the 
cold  on  the  heat  produced  explosive  noises  like 
great  guns  in  a  battle  and  we  had  to  dodge  the 
shower  of  sparks. 

Strange  looking  men  were  the  workers,  mostly 
Slovaks,  and  Italians.  The  Chalfonts  are  rather 
proud  of  the  good  feeling  that  exists  between  them 
and  their  workers.  I  saw  no  faces  of  disaffection, 
but  I  minded  being  looked  upon  by  them  as  a 
curious  idler — did  they  but  know  .  .  . ! 

February  16,  1921.    Pittsburgh 

Went  to  the  Carnegie  Museum  where  the  cura- 
tor, Mr.  Douglas  Stuart,  took  me  a  quick  rush 
through.  It  was  terribly  American  of  me  to  make 
such  a  hustling  tour,  but  un-American  of  me  not 
to  be  more  thorough.  Truth  to  tell,  I  had  an  ap- 
pointment for  three-fifteen  with  the  Women's 
Press  Club,  where  I  was  to  be  the  guest  of  honor. 
The  museum  was  very  interesting  and  I  longed  to 
stay  longer.  Chiefly  I  noticed  a  marble  vase 
carved  with  figures,  by  Barnard.  This  is  the  sculp- 
tor who  did  the  Lincoln  there  was  so  much  con- 
troversy about  in  England.  There  were  some  fine 
pictures.  A  Whistler  (The  Man  with  the  Violin), 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

j      J  J  tip 

an  Orpen  which  took  a  gold  medal  1  The  Duchess 
of  Rutland,  by  Blanche,  a  propos  of  which  Mr. 
Stuart  was  rather  amusing:  He  had  been  away 
on  vacation  and  knew  nothing  of  the  Society's  pur- 
chase of  pictures  abroad;  imagine  his  bewilder- 
ment when  he  received  a  cable,  "Duchess  of  Rut- 
land completely  covered — Lloyds. "  I  saw  some 
magnificent  casts  of  French  cathedral  fronts,  in  the 
architecture  room,  but  I  had  to  leave  and  go  to  my 
Women's  Press  Club.  It  was  a  terrifying  moment 
when  I  walked  into  McCreery's  restaurant  and 
found  what  seemed  to  me  to  be  about  forty  women 
sitting  in  a  solemn  circle.  I  was  introduced  all 
round,  and  then  told  that  "a  few  words"  were  ex- 
pected of  me.  £> 2(j 

For  nearly  two  hours  after  that  I  was  questioned, 
and  I  answered  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  Some- 
times the  questions  interested  me, — almost  always 
they  were  intelligent. 

I  dined  with  Mr.  Robinson  who  took  me  to  see 
the  Heinz  glass  factory  afterwards. 

Thursday,  February  17,  1921.     Pittsburgh. 

Mr.  Robinson  fetched  me  at  1 :  30  and,  with  the 
foreman  manager  of  the  Carnegie  Steel  Works, 
we  drove  out  to  Duquesne.  It  took  about  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  to  get  there — this  district 
seemed  to  be  even  more  business-like,  and  to  con- 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

tain  far  more  blast  furnace  towers  even  than 
Pittsburgh. 

For  nearly  three  hours  we  went  over  these  mills. 
Our  cicerone  was  intelligent  and  interesting,  but  I 
vainly  tried  to  follow  the  processes.  I  have  car- 
ried away  a  nebulous  idea. 

First  we  saw  the  furnace  where  the  iron  soil  is 
poured  in  and  becomes  molten.  It  runs  out  in  a 
great  channel  of  liquid  fire  which  pours  itself  into 
an  iron  tank.  The  clinker,  which  is  lighter  and 
remains  on  the  surface,  is  stopped  by  a  sieve  and 
diverted  into  another  channel;  thus  the  two  sepa- 
rate. There  are  seven  miles  of  cold  clinker  where 
it  has  been  thrown  out,  great  banks  of  it  on  which 
a  track  line  has  been  built.  While  we  were  there 
the  aperture  of  the  furnace  got  choked  up  so  the 
stream  of  fire  had  stopped.  We  watched  the  men 
with  huge  long  pokers  that  required  three  men  to 
fnove,  trying  to  open  up  the  aperture.  After  a 
few  minutes  the  poker  that  came  out  was  so  short 
that  one  man  could  handle  it.  This  happened  sev- 
eral times.  There  were  magnificent  Czecho- 
slovaks and  a  colored  man  working  together  on 
this.  Their  clinging,  soaking  shirts  revealed  their 
young,  strong,  conditioned  bodies.  The  sweat 
poured  from  them.  They  worked  rhythmically 
and  almost  leisurely,  as  though  this  thing  went 
on  forever  and  therefore  there  was  no  hurry. 
They    were    like    dramatic    pantomime    actors, 

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they  never  spoke.  The  sound  of  the  hissing, 
spitting,  shrieking  furnace  drowned  all  human  ^^^k 
efforts  of  sound.  Seldom  had  a  furnace  mouth 
remained  choked  as  long  as  this  one.  I 
wondered  why  we  waited  so  long  for  nothing  to 
happen,  but  our  guide,  who  knew  what  we  were 
waiting  for,  did  not  attempt  to  draw  us  away. 
Meanwhile  the  men  probed  with  their  iron  instru- 
ments, all  in  vain.  To  me  it  seemed  like  some 
gigantic  creature  shrieking  and  protesting  that 
something  was  wrong.  Suddenly,  as  we  stood 
there,  a  great  roar  and  hissing  and  vomiting,  and 
the  flow  of  orange  liquid  fire  burst  forth  with  a 
great  rush.  As  the  stream  proceeded  along  its 
course  fire-work  stars  rose  up  and  danced  in  the  air 
above  it,  stars  that  burst,  fairy-like,  and  illusive, 
and  almost  insolently  flippant.  At  night  it  must 
be  very  spectacular.  But  I  had  been  refused  ad- 
mittance at  night,  and  even  as  a  day  visitor  I  was 
told  I  was  the  first  woman  admitted  in  ten  years 


! 

We  proceeded  to  follow  the  liquid  through  its 

other  processes — though  not  all,  for  at  the  end  of 

three  hours  we  were  not  through.     But  my  head 

was  swimming  with  sounds  and  sights,  it  was  as 

though  one  had  spent  half  a  day  in  Dante's  Inferno. 

Moreover  my  legs  were  as  weary  as  my  head,  and 

though  I  had  meant  to  be  back  at  fivt)  it  was  six 

when  T  walked  through  the  William  Penn  Hotel! 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

The  attention  I  seemed  to  draw  made  me  wonder 
whether  in  those  few  hours  famejiad  overtaken 
me  in  the  press,  but  when  I  reached  my  room  and 
saw  my  black  face  in  the  glass,  I  understood  the 
stir  I  had  created  in  the  elevator! 
fet^  The  press  resolutely  seemed  to  have  a  parti- 
pris  against  me.  In  spite  of  all  my  efforts  to  be 
agreeable  and  interesting  to  the  reporters  who 
came  to  interview  me,  nothing  of  sufficient  import- 
ance ever  appeared  to  attract  the  faintest  notice  of 
my  existence  or  my  lecture.  Either  it  was  an  anti- 
British  feeling,  or  more  likely,  that  industrial  cap- 
italistic Pittsburgh  had  not  the  faintest  desire  to 
hear  anything  whatever  about  Lenin  or  Trotzky 
that  was  not  vituperative. 

With  great  weariness,  and  great  discouragement 
and  some  fear  of  my  audience,  in  fact  in  totally 
the  wrong  frame  of  mind  I  was  driven  in  the 
Robinson's  car,  and  escorted  by  the  father  and  son 
to  the  Carnegie  Institute  at  eight  o'clock. 

The  charming  Professor  of  History,  James,  of 
Pittsburgh  University,  introduced  me  to  a  half 
empty,  cold  and  unresponsive  hall! 

I  prefaced  my  lecture  by  asking  my  audience  to 
allow  me,  for  my  own  satisfaction,  to  express  a  few 
words  of  appreciation  of  Pittsburgh  before  I  began 
my  narrative  of  Moscow.    I  said : 

"I  have  only  been  in  this  country  two  weeks,  but 
I  have  had  a  wonderful  time.    As  for  Pittsburgh, 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

I  have  only  been  here  three  days,  but  I  have  been 
so  hospitably  received  that  I  have  crammed  a  great 
deal  into  that  space.  j^4n 

"I  have  seen  things  in  Pittsburgh  that  the  usual 
Pittsburgher  takes  for  granted  and  does  not  see 
the  beauty  of.  I  have  seen  a  town  by  day  and  by 
night  that  looked  like  a  Whistler  picture.  I  have 
heard  in  the  night  sounds  like  the  sea  breaking 
on  the  shore,  and  this  was  the  sound  of  never  ceas^^ 
ing  machinery.  I  have  seen  the  furnaces  and  the 
red  hot  steel ;  I  have  seen  machines  with  hands  and 
fingers  that  seemed  to  have  the  reasoning  power  of 
humans. 

"I  worship  force  as  an  element,  force  and  energy 
in  humans,  force  and  power  in  machinery.  You 
will  think  me  emotional  and  stupid  if  I  tell  you 
that  I  came  away  from  the  deafening  sound  of  the 
steel  mill,  with  the  same  feeling  I  have  after  list- 
ening to  Cathedral  music.  Have  you  ever,  when  you 
have  seen  something  very  beautiful,  felt  that  it  was 
almost  too  beautiful  to  take  in?  There  are  mo- 
ments of  happiness  too,  when  one  feels  not  bigswi 
enough  to  contain  them. 

"The  Pittsburgh  mills  are  like  Bolshevism, 
something  so  tremendous  that  my  mind  cannot 
grasp  it.  And  this  leads  me  back  to  my  subject: 
after  all,  you  have  come  here  not  to  hear  my  im- 
pressions of  Pittsburgh,  but  to  form  your  own 
impressions  of  Moscow.  .  .  ." 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

I  then  proceeded  to  tell  a  cold  small  audience, 
in  halting  tones,  forgetting  much  by  the  way — the 
story  of  my  trip  to  Moscow.  And  because  it  was 
like  talking  to  a  reserved  unresponsive  person,  I 
felt  paralyzed — I  wanted  to  stop,  I  stumbled  over 
my  sentences  and  had  lapses  of  memory!  There 
was  no  life  in  my  lecture.  Moreover,  I  was  tired, 
and  my  head  was  full  of  the  sound  of  blast  fur- 
naces. ...  It  was  an  awful  ordeal  and  I  was  glad 
when  it  was  over. 

With  Ruth  Djirloff,  I  caught  the  train,  Mr. 
Robinson  seeing  us  off  at  the  station.  He  has  been 
so  kind. 

The  train  was  awful.  At  last  I  have  something 
to  complain  of!  How  the  luxurious,  pampered 
American  can  stand  his  night  travelling  car  is  a 
wonderment  to  me.  Here  at  last  is  something  they 
might  copy  from  Europe.  In  England,  France, 
and  Italy,  it  is  far  more  comfortable.  My  night  is 
indescribable.  The  bed  behind  a  curtain  is  all  one 
gets,  not  a  square  foot  of  privacy  to  stand  up  and 
undress  in.  I  had  to  struggle  out  of  my  clothes 
as  I  sat  or  lay  on  my  bed.  Then,  whenever  anyone 
passed  down  the  car  (and  they  did  pass),  they 
brushed  my  curtains  which  parted  enough  (in  spite 
of  being  buttoned),  to  let  in  a  streak  of  electric 
light  that  waked  me.  Moreover,  people  passed 
down  the  car  whistling,  and  at  an  early  hour  in 
the  morning,  when   the  stars   were  still   in   the 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 


heavens,  passengers  who  were  about  to  alight  at  the 
next  stop  got  together  and  talked  loudly,  .  .  .  not  a 
wink  of  sleep  could  I  get  while  two  men  discussed 
business  matters.  Weary  as  I  was,  sleep  could  not 
combat  the  conditions. 

Friday,  February  18,  1921.    New  York. 

A  weary  wreck,  I  arrived  at  midday  at  New 
York,  and  to  my  surprise  and  joy,  Hugo  Koehler 
had  brought  Dick  to  meet  me  at  the  station.  I 
then  went  up  to  the  Numesmatic  Society,  where  I 
found  my  exhibition  all  arranged,  and  ready  to 
open  at  two  o'clock.  Some  press  people  were  al- 
ready there. 

Very  little  re-arranging  had  to  be  done.  The 
"Numesmatic"  staff  must  have  worked  like  super- 
men. Mr.  Bertelli,  the  bronze  founder,  had  re- 
touched the  pattines  and  done  wonders.  I  was 
delighted. 

It  is  very  thrilling  to  see  one's  own  exhibition — 


Saturday,  February  19,  1921. 

Hugo  and  I  went  to  lunch  with  Mrs.  Harry 
Payne  Whitney  at  her  studio.  I  sat  next  to  Mr. 
Bob  Chanler,  whom  I  hadn't  met  before.  He  has 
the  head  of  a  great  French  savant,  and  a  voice  like 
the  roar  of  a  bull.  He  was  once  married  to  Cava- 
lieri!    On  my  other  side,  Mr.  Childe  Hassam,  the 

painter;  opposite  Mr.  and  Jo  Davidson. 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

There  were  lots  of  people  I  didn't  know,  and 
among  them  I  met  a  Sheridan  cousin  called  Pitt- 
man.  Good  looking  and  nice,  I  was  glad  to  claim 
him.  Paul  Manship  came  in  afterwards,  he  and  I 
and  Davidson  and  Bob  Chanler,  unable  to  bear  the 
noise  or  the  absence  of  air,  at  the  end  of  lunch 
went  upstairs  to  the  studio  and  danced  to  the  gram- 
ophone. Mr.  Chanler,  rather  mad,  and  attractive 
accordingly,  kissed  me  in  a  moment  of  expansion! 
That  is  very  American.  They  may  kiss  in  public, 
!  ! 


After  lunch  Ruth  Draper  did  some  imitations. 
It  is  pure  genius. 

It  was  difficult  to  drag  oneself  awTay  from  such 
an  attractive  party.  I  like  Mrs.  Whitney  and  her 
breakaway  from  the  conventions.  She  seems  to 
achieve  the  real  Bohemian  spirit.  I  remember 
John  Noble  telling  me  about  her  years  ago — she 
is  the  fairy  godmother  of  struggling  artists. 

Jo  Davidson  and  Paul  Manship  came  down  to 
my  exhibition  in  Hugo's  car.  It  was  nice  of  them 
to  come,  sculptors  are  not  as  nice  to  each  other  in 
England  as  those  here  have  been  to  me.  There 
seems  to  be  a  different  spirit  here.  I  had  a  hectic 
time,  wanting  to  talk  to  all  my  friends  who  turned 
up. 

I  came  home  in  time  to  dress  and  Jo  Davidson 
called  for  me  and  took  me  to  the  Manhattan  Opera 
House.    We  had  not  time  to  dine.    It  was  the  first 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

time  I  had  been  to  the  opera  since  Moscow.  The 
house  was  a  full  one  and  very  enthusiastic.  The 
stalls  seemed  to  consist  mostly  of  alien  music- 
lovers,  and  for  the  most  part  not  evening  dressed. 
It  was  very  democratic  and  harmonious.  I  liked 
it. 

Afterwards,  Hugo  fetched  us  and  we  went  to 
Guardiabasse's  flat  for  supper.  He  made  the  mac- 
aroni himself  and  I  helped  him.  He  sings  and  he 
paints,  and  he  seems  to  be  a  useful  person  to  have 
about  the  house ! 

We  were  a  noisy  crew,  and  there  were  repeated 
requests  from  below  that  we  should  make  less 
noise!  Which  seemed  to  me  curious  for  a  studio 
flat.  An  American  party  is  always  noisy.  I  can't 
make  out  why  one  should  be  unable  to  hear  oneself 
speak.  I  think  it  is  that  they  talk  in  a  key  higher 
than  we  do.  They  have  a  great  sense  of  cama- 
raderie, and  when  they  get  together  to  have  a 
"good  time"  it  is  bewildering.  I  wonder  what 
they  think  of  us?  I  should  think  they  find  us 
deadly. 

Sunday,  February  20,  192 1.    New  York. 

It  suddenly  started  to  snow  last  night  and  this 
morning  it  was  inches  deep.  Dick  was  delighted. 
Hugo  Koehler  took  us  to  lunch  at  the  St.  Regis 
opposite,  and  on  our  way  back  Dick  stopped  to  dig 
with  an  old  woman  who  was  shovelling  away  the 

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snow  from  in  front  of  her  house.  I  watched  them 
for  a  few  minutes,  and  the  old  woman  said  to  Dick, 
"My!  You'll  be  a  help  to  your  Daddy  some  day." 
Dick,  in  a  perfectly  matter  of  fact  voice  said,  "I 
haven't  got  a  daddy,  he's  killed."  "O-h — ,"  said 
the  woman,  "in  that  terrible  war  I  suppose?" 
"Yes,"  Dick  answered,  "in  that  war — and  we 
haven't  won  anything  by  it  either.  .  .  .".  It 
sounded  uncanny  in  the  mouth  of  a  five-year-old. 
Finally  I  left  him  there  shovelling  and  his  face 
was  gloriously  pink.  Louise  could  survey  him 
from  the  window,  and  Hugo  and  I  got  down  to  the 
"Numesmatic"  on  the  subway.  It  was  the  first 
time  I  had  travelled  on  it,  and  I  was  amused  to 
see  that  the  "Do  not  Spit,"  order  was  written  in 
three  languages.  One  of  course  being  Italian,  and 
the  other  Yiddish ! 

To-night  I  have  had  my  first  evening  at  home. 
I  resolutely  refused  to  go  to  the  supper  party  I  had 
accepted  at  Mrs.  W.'s.  Hugo  wanted  me  to  go, 
but  I  would  not.  I  made  him  keep  his  dinner 
engagement  and  I  dined  with  Louise.  We  each 
had  an  tgg  and  a  cup  of  coffee.  It  was  heaven, 
and  I  went  to  bed  early. 

. 
Monday,  February  21,  1921. 

Griffin  Barry  fetched  me  and  took  me  to  lunch 
in  Washington  Place  at  a  strange  below-ground 
place  where  we  had  excellent  Italian  food.    There 

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was  Mary  Heaton  Vorse,   author  of  "Men  and 
Steel,"  and  Kenneth  Durant. 

I  discussed  "Men  and  Steel"  and  Pittsburgh 
with  Mary  Heaton  Vorse,  she  had  seen  the  beauty 
and  the  grandeur  of  the  mills  as  I  had.  I  said  that 
I  thought  the  basis  of  the  labor  trouble  here  was 
that  Labor  is  alien  and  can  be  not  only  exploited, 
but  any  attempt  of  alien  Labor  to  rebel  is  not  tol- 
erated. When  I  asked  in  Pittsburgh  whether 
Labor  had  gained  anything  by  its  Steel  Strike  in 
191 9,  I  was  told  emphatically  "No" — to  which  I 
replied  that  the  English  working  man  gains  some- 
thing every  time  he  strikes!  The  argument  I  was 
given  was  this:    "They  haven't  got  to  work  in  the 

mills  if  they  don't  want  to ."     "No,"  I  said, 

"But  can  you  do  without  them?"    "No ." 


Mary  Vorse  says,  however,  that  I  am  wrong 
about  its  being  alien  Labor  that  is  exploited.  She 
says  that  the  American  farmer  in  the  west  is  not 
treated  any  better. 

They  all  admitted,  however,  that  no  such  pov- 
erty or  bad  living  conditions  existed  in  Pittsburgh, 
for  example,  as  in  London,  Hull,  New  Castle,  etc. 
The  English  slums  are  probably  the  most  tragic  in 
the  world. 

After  lunch  I  went  with  Barry  and  Durant  to 
his  office.  The  feeling  was  at  once  Moscow!  I 
know  so  well  the  type  of  clerk  in  those  offices.  I 
met  all  the  staff,  and  saw  some  proofs  which  are 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

publications  in  the  next  number  of  the  Magazine, 
Soviet  Russia. 

It  is  interesting  that  an  old  Philadelphia  family 
belonging  to  Rittenhouse  Square  should  produce 
Kenneth:  an  ascetic  Bolshevik  with  an  archaic 
face.  A  face  that  belongs  to  the  woods,  and  a  soul 
that  belongs  to  the  world's  workers.  It  is  not  al- 
ways working  people  and  worker's  conditions  that 
produce  revolutionaries  and  world  reformers. 
Reaction  produces  them.  The  intellectual  free- 
thinker and  free-observer  is  driven  out  of  his  own 
sphere  in  spite  of  himself — human  sympathy,  a 
sense  of  justice,  added  to  a  revulsion  against  the 
narrow  prejudice,  the  intense  dullness  of  a  social 
bourgeois  class. 

A  society  that's  purely  social  and  not  intellec- 
tual is  dull  all  the  world  over.  In  some  countries 
its  monotony  is  varied  by  its  vice.  In  this  country 
it  is  less  vicious  (apparently)  and  more  dull,  less 
intellectual,  and  more  overwhelmingly  conven- 
tional. No  one  with  imagination  or  spirit  could 
help  reacting  from  it.  Kenneth  and  I  are  reaction- 
aries! 

From  a  purposeless  and  equally  conventional 
world,  I  went  unexpectedly  to  Russia.  There  I 
opened  my  eyes  wide  to  a  new,  struggling,  striving 
humanity.  Whatever  I  understood  of  it— and  I 
admit  I  did  not  understand  much — it  was  obvious 
that  this  new  world  was  pursuing  an  IDEA.  Right 

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or  wrong  they  were  living  selflessly,  and  were  pre- 
pared for  every  sacrifice.  I  never  had  known 
people  before  who  would  sacrifice  something  for 
an  ideal.  I  might  have  met  them,  without  going 
to  Russia,  but  they  didn't  exist  in  the  circle  by 
which  I  was  hemmed  in.  In  Russia  I  became  con- 
scious that  a  great  mass  of  oppressed  people  had 
risen  to  struggle  for  light.  I  was  impressed.  I 
was  appreciative,  and  after  awhile  I  was  inspired. 
It  was  afterwards,  when  I  came  out  of  Russia  that 
my  own  world  roused  in  me  a  reaction  of  rebel- 
lion. The  intense  stupidity  as  well  as  the  narrow- 
mindedness  of  my  own  class  did  their  work  on  me. 

As  for  America!  Since  I  landed  I  have  been 
metaphorically  slapped  and  kissed  alternately,  un- 
til I'm  so  bewildered  I  have  almost  lost  judgment. 
Yet  I  claim  nothing  for  myself  but  the  right,  as  a 
citizen  of  the  world  to  be  free,  to  think  as  I  like, 
and  to  speak  as  I  think.  I  have  the  right  that  the 
man  in  the  street  has,  to  an  opinion.  Like  the  man 
in  the  street,  there  is  no  reason  why  my  opinion 
should  carry  more  weight  or  be  treated  with  more 
consideration.  But  I  claim  the  right  to  be  as  sin- 
cere as  that  man. 

Kenneth  Durant,  having  finished  the  work  he 
went  to  his  office  to  do,  took  me  to  tea  with  the 
Pinchots.  Mr.  Pinchot  is  a  brother  of  Nettie 
Johnstone,*  and  is  supposed  to  be  rather  radical. 

*Wife  of  Sir  Alan  Johnstone,  British  diplomatic  service. 

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I  should  have  said  "poseur,"  not  radical.  These 
people  who  have  so  much  to  lose  (he  is  reported 
rich)  are  not  very  seriously  radical.  There  were 
some  reactionary  women  there  and  some  undefin- 
able  men,  so  we  all  three  sat  rather  silent  until  at 
last  in  walked  a  large  breezy  person!  It  was 
Charles  Irvine,  Editor  of  the  Socialist  paper,  The 
Call.  He  came  and  sat  next  to  me,  and  was  a 
great  relief. 

We  talked  a  little  of  England  and  mutual 
friends.  I  told  him  my  difficulties  about  lecturing 
to  capitalistic  United  States  on  a  subject  as  dis- 
tasteful to  them  as  Lenin  and  Trotzky!  I  told  him 
about  my  empty  hall  at  Pittsburgh.  He  exclaimed 
that  had  he  known  me  before  I  went  to  Pittsburgh 
he  would  have  filled  my  hall  for  me.  If  one  kind 
of  people  doesn't  want  to  hear  you,  get  those  that 
will. . . .  He  promises  I  shall  never  have  an  empty 
hall  again.  On  the  way  home  in  the  bus  were  two 
girls.  One  was  dicussing  with  the  other  her  wed- 
ding dress;  they  were  diverted  from  their  frivol- 
ous talk  by  headlines  in  an  evening  paper  of  the 
person  in  front,  "Soviet  troops  massing  on  the 
Georgian  frontier."  And  one  said,  "I  wonder  what 
Soviet  troops  means — I  know  what  Bolsheviki 
means,  but  Soviet,  what  is  that?  I  wish  I  could 
get  some  one  to  explain."  The  other  said,  "I  don't 
know  what  Soviet  means,  but  the  Bolsheviks  were 
named  after  a  general  called  Bolsheviki."    "Yes,  of 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

course,"  said  the  other,  "That  was  it,  General  Bol- 
sheviki"  .  .  .  and  they  dismissed  it  and  resumed 
their  wedding  dress  talk.  I  suppose  that  is  pretty 
illustrative  of  general  information  concerning  the 
Russian  subject.  .  .  . 

Tuesday,  February  22,  1921. 

A  long  letter  from  the  Crown  Prince  of  Sweden, 
the  first  I  have  received  since  I  got  back  from 
Russia.  The  first  four  pages  are  full  of  reproach 
for  having  published  the  fact  that  I  saw  him  when 
I  passed  through  Stockholm  with  Kameneff".  He 
says  that  it  is  embarrassing  for  him  to  be  mentioned 
even  indirectly  in  connection  with  "those  people" 
with  whom  I  was  travelling. 

This  means,  I  suppose,  that  his  relations  have 
abused  him  soundly  for  even  knowing  me!  He  is 
wrong  to  think  I  could  do  him  any  harm ;  on  the 
contrary,  his  broad-mindedness  could  only  win 
over  radicals,  and  not  harm  him  with  conservatives. 

I  expect  the  "early  Christians"*  were  terribly 
scandalized,  and  have  been  writing  and  telling  him 
what  they  thought  of  it. 

After  lunching  with  Emil  Fuchs,  who  is  doing  a 
wonderful  head  of  Mr.  Cartier,  the  jeweler,  look- 
ing like  Rameses  ...  I  took  Dick  up  to  the 
Numismatic  museum  with  his  sledge,  and  he  to- 


*Prince  and  Princess  Christian  of  England. 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

boganned  outside.  Two  hundred  people  came  to 
my  exhibition  to-day.  It  is  very  amusing,  all  kinds 
of  cranks  introduce  themselves  to  me  .  .  .  some  to 
say  they  are  Bolsheviks,  or  Communists,  and  they 
hand  me  literature  which  gives  me  news  of  Mos- 
cow! Others  who  tell  me  how  they  hate  the  Bol- 
sheviks, or  the  Sinn  Feiners,  or  the  Knights  of 
Columbus,  and  so  on. 

I  am  always  amused  by  people  who  want  to  kill 
off  all  Bolsheviks,  all  Sinn  Feiners,  all  Germans 

and  all  Jews It  would  make  for  a  wonderfully 

emptier  world.  Perhaps  it  would  be  more  peace- 
ful !  Anyway,  it  is  very  emblematic  of  the  Chris- 
tian spirit  of  to-day! 

Rather  an  amusing  record  has  been  kept  for  me 
of  some  of  the  remarks,  made  by  people  who  come, 
concerning  the  Russian  busts: 

"How  ugly." 

"How  wicked  they  look." 

"What  noble  looking  men." 

"Lenin  is  my  hero,  I  love  him." 

"Zinoviev  looks  like  a  musician." 

"This  is  Russian  propaganda " 

"This  is  the  most  perfect  anti-Bolshevik  prop- 
aganda,  "   y'ftMtft, 

"These  are  fine  advertisements  for  the  Bolshe- 
viks— I'm  one." 

"Lenin  is  not  for  sale,  she  made  him  to  decorate 
her  London  studio." 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

[ 

"I  believe  they  look  worse  than  she  made  them." 

"How  did  she  ever  escape  alive  from  such  awful 
looking  men?" 

"We  have  seen  some  of  the  men.  These  busts 
look  just  like  them." 

"That's  fine  of  Trotzky!" 

"They  don't  look  like  bomb-throwers." 

"Lenin  has  a  benevolent  expression " 

"Trotzky  looks  like  the  devil."   ; 

"Lenin  is  positively  awful  to  look  at." 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Sheridan?  The  name  seems 
familiar." 

"Is  she  a  Russian?" 

"Is  she  Jewess?" 

"She  is  a  wonder " 

"How  tall  is  she?" 

"Is  she  pretty?" 

"She  is  a  Bolshevik." 

"Is  she  a  Bolshevik?" 

"I  bet  she  hates  the  Russians,  she  made  them  so 
ugly." 

"Did  she  study  with  Rodin?" 

"Is  she  light  or  dark?" 

"That  can't  be  HER!" 

"Is  she  from  Chicago?" 

"I'm  glad  she's  English." 

"I'm  proud  she  has  American  blood  in  her 
veins." 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

"So  glad  a  woman,  and  not  a  man,  did  this  won- 
derful work." 

"That's  Winston  Churchill What  a  contrast 

to  the  Russians." 

"That  is  what  I  call  a  good  face." 

"He  is  the  author  of  'Inside  the  Cup.'  " 

"Lady  Randolph  Churchill  is  his  wife." 

"Shane  Leslie  is  Irish." 

"He  is  the  great  English  actor." 

"He  is  the  man  who  was  stood  up  and  shot." 

"He  looks  sad  because  he  is  thinking  of  poor 
Ireland." 

"Who  is  Mademoiselle  X?" 

"Is  she  a  nun?" 

"Is  her  face  china?" 

"Is  her  face  wax?" 

"How  did  she  get  the  face  inside  the  bronze?" 

"It  is  beautiful." 

"It  is  horrid." 

"She  was  a  Russian  spy." 

"She  was  a  French  war  nurse." 

"I  have  read  the  book  about  her." 

"There  was  a  play  about  her,  I  saw  it." 

"She  is  Mrs.  Sheridan's  sister." 

"  'John'  is  Mrs.  Sheridan's  baby.  She  sat  up 
and  modelled  it  in  bed." 

"He  is  Shane  Leslies'  baby."       ■ 

"It  is  a  Russian  baby." 

"That  is  Asquith.    It  was  through  his  influence 

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that  Mrs.  Sheridan  got  in  and  out  of  Russia  with 
safety." 

"Where  is  the  Exhibition?"  (Question  asked 
by  a  lady  after  looking  at  the  things  for  half  an 
hour.) 

"I  suppose  she  sold  the  mask  for  less  because  it 
was  broken — I  mean  that  its  head  is  not  all  there." 

"They  all  have  souls — that  are  almost  living." 

"This  Hall  looks  like  a  funeral  parlor." 

"If  I  had  the  money  I  would  buy  them  all,  so 
they  could  not  be  taken  out  of  America." 

"I  do  work  just  like  that." 

"It's  simply  wonderful." 

"A  High-school  girl  can  do  it." 

Wednesday,  February  23,  1921. 

I  lunched  with  Travers  Jerome,  Senior,  it  was 
the  first  time  I  had  met  him.  He  talks  well  and 
every  now  and  then  he  says  things  so  like  Winston, 
and  in  the  sort  of  way  Winston  says  them,  that  I 
realize  the  strength  of  the  Jerome  blood  in  us. 

He  told  me  a  little  about  my  family;  there  is,  he 
says,  a  red-haired,  freckled  strain  that  is  very 
strong,  and  a  black-haired  strain  that  was  more 

delicate .  Winston  is,  of  course,  the  red-haired 

strain,  and  it  has  come  out  with  great  force  in  his 
children.    Hugh's*  child,  too,  has  the  red  hair  and 


*Hugh  Frewen,  brother  of  C.  S. 

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freckles.  Travers,  referring  to  Shane  Leslie,  said 
he  did  not  recognize  the  Jerome  in  him.  "We 
were  never  dreamers ,"  he  said,  "always  prac- 
tical and  forceful."  He  told  me  rather  a  sweet 
story  about  Henry  James,  whom  he  apparently 
took  down  to  the  East  Side  to  show  him  around. 
To  meet  him,  he  invited  Meyer  Shonfielol,  a  Jew- 
ish sweatshop  operator.  He' thought  Meyer  was 
the  most  opposite  pole  to  Henry,  and  that  it  would 
be  interesting.  To  Meyer,  he  said,  "Study  this 
man  Henry  James,  he  is  a  de-nationalized  Amer- 
ican, and  I  want  your  opinion  of  him."  Henry, 
he  says,  was  at  his  best  that  night;  he,  so  to  speak, 
threw  off  his  veil,  and  was,  what  so  seldom  hap- 
pened, the  simple  unmasked  Henry.  Afterwards, 
when  they  had  parted,  Meyer  turned  to  Travers, 
and  with  a  glow  of  enthusiasm,  said,  "He's  a  real 

man!  ain't  he ?"     Surely  as  high  a  tribute  as 

our  beloved  Henry  ever  received. 
K****)  TVleanwhile  I  feel  I  am  just  beginning  to  get  my 
bearings  and  to  understand  the  psychology  of  New 
York! 

I  am  worn  out  going  from  one  place  to  another 
that  I  am  asked  to,  and  the  odd  spare  moments 
are  spent  in  writing  little  social  notes  of  refusal, 
or  answering  the  telephone.  It  seems  a  terrible 
waste  of  time.  America  has  a  genius  for  enter- 
taining, but  I  came  here  for  work,  not  for  food. 
At  parties  there  are  so  many  people,  and  they  all 

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talk  so  loud  that  one  cannot  hear  one's  neighbor 
speak.  One  comes  out  as  one  went  in,  a  stranger, 
knowing  no  names,  and  remembering  few  faces, 
and  having  eaten  too  richly.  ^  ^^ 

Everyone  looks  rather  alike,  the  women  have  a 
curious  expression  of  amiability  that  makes  it  al- 
most impossible  for  the  submerged  stranger  to  re- 
member any  one  as  anything  special.  The  face  of 
the  average  American  woman  has  a  curious  seren- 
ity, the  mother  of  a-  son  of  18  may  look  as  if  she 
were  the  mother  of  a  son  of  8 — I  suppose  they  live 
more  sheltered  lives,  and  do  not  show  the  marks 
of  battle  as  other  women  do.  I  must  say  the  Amer- 
ican man  is  extremely  good  to  them. 

Any  man  in  the  world  can  be  chivalrous  towards 
the  woman  he  is  in  love  with,  but  the  American 
man  is  chivalrous  to  the  woman  he  isn't  in  love 
with;  and  the  woman  takes  it  for  granted! 

At  seven  o'clock  I  dined  at  my  first  public  din- 
ner. It  was  the  Society  of  the  Genesee  at  the 
Ommodore  Hotel,  and  I  was  the  guest  of  Mr. 
L^uis  Wiley.  I  had  Judge  Parker  on  one  side  of 
m^.  McEvoy  was  at  our  table  and  Emil  Fuchs, 
and  Guardiabasse,  otherwise  no  one  I  knew.  It 
w*s  a  huge  affair. 

To  my  amazement  they  began  with  a  long  grace! 
The  Puritanism  that  still  survives  in  these  people 
is  remarkable. 

All  during  dinner  there  were  speeches.  Admiral 

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Huse  discussed  armament,  which  he  is  in  favor  of. 
Of  course,  soldiers  and  sailors  are  for  armaments, 
otherwise  where  would  they  be?  But  armaments 
don't  interest  me  much.  I  can't  see  that  it  matters 
if  the  United  States  wants  to  waste  money  in  that 
way.  She's  got  plenty  to  spend.  But  what  is  the 
armament  for?  The  United  States  got  on  without 
it  before,  when  there  was  a  strong  England  and  a 
strong  Germany.  Now  that  Europe  is  "in  extremis" 
why  suddenly  is  the  United  States  on  the  defen- 
sive? Anyway,  none  of  the  speeches  were  anti- 
British  to  my  surprise,  as  I  am  looking  for  that 
anti-British  wave,  and  haven't  found  it  yet. 

One  speaker  surprised  me  by  telling  a  long  sub- 
marine war  story.   We  have  so  completely  finished 


with  war  stories  in  Europe,  it  was  funny  to  find  it 
still  going  on  here. 

After  dinner  my  neighbor  on  the  left  insisted  on 
taking  me  to  dance  at  a  restaurant  called  "Mont- 
martre."  He  assured  me  it  was  quite  respectable 
and  that  I  should  "have  the  time  of  my  life.^  I 
didn't  care  about  the  respectability,  but  it  wasn't 
amusing.  A  room  thick  with  smoke  and  filled  with 
supper  tables,  and  only  the  space  of  a  plate  to  dance 
in!  A  terrible  crowd,  and  dancing  a  perfect  im- 
possibility. 

Friday,  February  25,  192 1.  , 

Dick  took  me  out  to  lunch.    He  insisted  I  should 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

go  alone  with  him.  He  knew  exactly  where  to  take 
me.  We  crossed  Fifth  Avenue  and  went  along 
West  55th  Street  and  down  some  steps  to  a  restau- 
rant called  the  "Mayflower,"  where  he  seemed  to 
be  known  there.  Dick  ordered  the  food,  talked 
.-*■-  familiarly  to  the  waitress  and  produced  two  dol- 
lars to  pay  the  bill.  He  then  took  me  to  a  toy  shop 
in  Fifth  Avenue;  he  knew  the  way  there,  too,  and 

I  had  to  pay  five  dollars  for  a  submarine ! 

I  dined  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barmby,  who  took 
me  to  Carnegie  Hall  to  hear  Sir  Phijip  Gibbs'  lec- 
ture on  the  Irish  question.  It  was  a  subject  that 
seemed  to  demand  great  courage  to  tackle,  and,  of 
course,  it  asked  for  trouble.  Outside  on  the  side 
walk,  women  went  back  and  forth  with  placards 
full  of  insults  about  England.  It  roused  all  my 
fighting  instincts.  I  said  to  one  of  them  aggres- 
sively, "I'm  proud  I'm  English!"  and  she  put  her 
tongue  out  at  me.  Why  was  I  proud  to  be  English? 
I  never  feel  very  English  ordinarily,  but  these 
people  affected  me  this  way. 

The  hall  was  packed.  Gibbs  prefaced  his  lec- 
ture by  hoping  it  was  going  to  be  a  pleasant  and  a 
friendy  meeting,  which  made  the  audience  laugh. 
It  certainly  remained  friendly  longer  than  I  had 
expected,  but  when  the  interruptions  came  they 
were  ridiculously  feeble  and  ill-organized.  A 
bunch  of  women  in  the  dress  circle,  screamed  in 
high-pitched  voices  and  waved  the  United  States 

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and  the  Sinn  Fein  flags.  One  man  in  the  gallery 
had  to  be  evicted,  amid  applause  of  the  house. 

Sir  Philip  never  was  flustered,  never  did  I  see 
anyone  so  calm  and  so  self-possessed.  Finally  he 
told  them  they  were  very  silly  people,  and  not 
patriots.  He  said  they  were  not  Irish,  but  he  be- 
lieved they  were  Bolsheviks!  (Applause  from  the 
house.)  When  the  gallery  got  too  noisy  and  he 
had  to  stop,  there  was  a  dramatic  moment  when  a 
tall,  good  looking  priest  suddenly  appeared  upon 
the  platform,  shook  hands  with  Gibbs  and  then 
waited  for  a  lull.  He  then  announced  himself  as 
"Father  Duffy"  (wild  applause).  Of  course  I,  in 
my  ignorance  knew  nothing  of  Father  Duffy,  and 
learnt  later  he  was  chaplain  of  the  69th  Regiment, 
and  went  with  them  to  France  and  distinguished 
himself  on  the  field  of  battle.  He  said  that  he  was 
a  Sinn-Feiner,  but  that  he  asked  fair  play  for  Sir 
Philip  Gibbs,  whom  he  thought  was  a  fair  man, 
and  he  wanted  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say.  Some 
other  time,  he  said,  "we  will  fill  a  hall  for  our- 
selves and  discuss  our  own  subject,  but  to-day  let 
us  hear  what  Sir  Philip  has  to  say." 

He  did  much  towards  restoring  order.  I  liked 
his  personality,  he  had  courage  and  dignity.  Sir 
Philip  certainly  did  speak  fair,  he  was  fair  to  both 
sides.  He  did  the  almost  impossible:  he  was  sym- 
pathetic about  Ireland,  yet  loyal  to  England. 
Moreover,   he   remained  calm,   patient,   and  un- 

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ruffled  throughout  the  interruptions.  In  the  end 
he  advocated  Dominion  Home  Rule  for  Ireland, 
which  enraged  the  agitators.  He  said  they  never 
would  be  a  Republic,  and  the  house  applauded  en- 
thusiastically, and  on  every  occasion  displayed 
strong  pro-British  sympathy.  I  was  amazed. 
Again  I  was  looking  for  this  anti-British  wave  I 
hear  so  much  about.  Outside,  afterwards,  the  Irish 
agitators  did  everything  in  their  power  to  start  a 
riot.  The  police  were  very  good-humored  and 
very  competent.  It  must  be  pleasanter  at  this  mo- 
ment to  be  an  Irish  policeman  in  New  York  than 
in  Ireland! 

Tuesday,  March  1,1921. 

Mr.  Liveright  took  me  to  lunch  at  the  Dutch 
Treat  Club.  I  knew  nothing  about  it,  nor  by 
whom  I  was  invited — and  when  we  got  up  to  the 
room  in  the  elevator  (we  were  late),  it  appeared 
that  I  was  the  only  woman,  among  what  seemed  to 
me  about  seventy  men.  Had  it  been  seventy  women 
instead  of  men,  I  should  have  gone  down  in  the 
elevator  by  which  I  came  up.  But  I  can  stand  this 
sort  of  party  every  day  in  the  week!  They  were 
all  very  polite  and  the  whole  room  rose  to  its  feet 
as  I  came  in.    T&  *L+*^ 

I  sat  next  to  the  president.  Mr.  Pollen  was  on 
his  other  side.  I  had  on  my  left  Mr.  Cosgrave, 
the  Sunday  Editor  of  The  WORLD.  The  party, 
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which  sat  at  small  tables,  were  editors,  writers, 
cartoonists,  etc.  I  was  called  upon  to  make  a 
speech  which  was  unexpected,  paralysing  and  un- 
fair. I  spoke  for  about  fifteen  minutes.  I  don't 
know  what  I  said,  the  thing  was  to  say  something, 

anything .    They  were  wonderfully  nice  and 

sympathetic .       ^  £^ 

Mr.  Pollen  spoke  after  me.     He  was  amiable 
about  America,  and  all  went  off  well! 

Mr.  Liveright  told  me  afterwards  that  he  ad- 
mired my  self-composure.    Thank  heavens  if  I  can    -" 
appear  so,  and  not  betray  the  interior  terror  that 
possesses  me  at  the  thought  of  public  speaking! 

FRIDAY,  MARCH  4,  1921.  (Harding's  Inaugura- 
tion.) 
Mr.  Galatly  and  Childe  Hassam  fetched  me  and 
motored  me  out  to  George  Gray  Barnard's  studio. 
It  is  situated  high  up  above  the  Hudson  River.  I 
was  keen  to  meet  him  because  Epstein  had  talked 
to  me  so  much  and  so  enthusiastically  about  him. 
As  Epstein  never  has  a  good  word  for  a  fellow 
sculptor  his  eulogy  of  Barnard  made  a  great  impres- 
sion on  me.  It  was  Epstein  who  showed  me  photo- 
graphs of  the  Barnard  Lincoln  and  the  St.  Gaudens 
Lincoln  at  the  time  of  the  great  controversy.  I 
had  not  a  moment's  hesitation  in  my  own  mind  as 
to  which  was  the  finer  work  of  art.  But  some  one 
decided  on  the  St.  Gaudens  for  Westminster.    A 

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people  who  could  accept  Sir  George  Frampton's 
memorial  to  Nurse  Cavell  could  hardly  be  expect- 
ed to  select  the  greater  of  the  two  Lincolns! 

The  morning  was  bright,  cold,  and  sunny.  We 
knocked  at  the  door  of  a  big  building  by  the  road- 
side, and  Barnard  himself  came  to  the  door.  Mid- 
dle-aged, clean-shaven,  with  a  mass  of  upstanding, 
gray  hair,  he  blinked  at  us  in  the  sunlight  (he  has 
a  slight  cast  in  one  eye),  and  asked  if  I  would  like 
to  see  the  cloister  before  I  saw  the  studio.  It  was 
too  cold,  he  said,  for  him  to  come  with  us,  but  we 
would  find  someone  there  to  show  us  over.  As  we 
walked  up  the  road  towards  a  pile  of  masonry  with 
some  ruins  and  some  columns  outside  it,  Tasked 
about  the  cloister.  It  was  explained  to  me  that  this 
was  built  of  stones  and  fragments  from  France, 
Italy  and  Spain,  which  Barnard  had  collected. 
He  had  designed  the  cloister,  and  built  some  of, it' 
with  his  own  hands.  It  represented,  so  they  said, 
the  soul  of  Barnard,  and  there  some  day  he  would 
be  buried.       x£> 

In  this  case  it  seemed  quite  sensible  that  I  should 
see  the  cloister  first  and  the  builder  afterwards,  if 
the  one  explained  the  other. 

We  went  to  a  door  and  rang  an  old  bell,  even 
outside  in  the  porch  there  was  a  smell  of  incense. 
An  old  man  opened  for  us.  He  wore  a  black,  worn 
robe,  a  rope  around  his  waist,  and  a  skull  cap.  He 
looked  like  a  monk,  and  his  face  was  tanned  and 
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wrinkled,  but  when  he  spoke,  it  was  American! 
Inside,  the  building  was  of  old  pink  brick,  with 
cloisters  all  around,  of  beautifully  matched  pairs 
of  columns  of  different  patterns.  In  the  center  was 
the  stone  tomb  of  a  Crusader.  Small  carved  frag- 
ments were  let  into  the  walls  here  and  there.  There 
were  side  chapels,  and  altars  and  Madonnas  and 
Bambinos,  and  candle  sticks  and  golden  gates,  and 
everything  that  there  ought  to  be.  One  really  felt 
oneself  in  some  remote  corner  of  Italy.  Moreover, 
it  was  simple  and  beautiful,  in  perfect  taste,  and 
built,  so  one  felt,  by  loving  hands. 

I  asked  if  it  was  meant  to  be  Roman  Catholic, 
but  I  was  told  "no."  ...  It  savored  of  Catholicism, 
it  looked,  smelt  and  felt  Roman.  There  was  not 
a  corner,  not  a  viewpoint  that  was  not  a  poem.  And 
so  this  (I  kept  saying  to  myself)  is  the  soul  of 
Barnard.     I  felt  myself  projected  forward  many 

years I  saw  it  as  the  burial  place,  the  memorial 

of  Barnard.  I  felt  that  a  proud  and  a  grateful 
people  would  come  there  some  day  piously  and 
wonderingly:  in  the  heart  of  America,  Barnard's 
body  would  be  in  Italy. 

I  stood  at  the  feet  of  the  nameless  Crusader,  and 
wondered  about  the  soul  of  the  man  Barnard.  It 
was  evident  that  he  was  a  dreamer  and  not  a  com- 
mercial artist.  It  was  evident  that  his  soul  was 
athirst  for  certain  things  that  his  mother  country 
lacked;  for  repose,  mellowness  of  age,  and  tradi- 

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tion.  Why  did  he  not  go  and  live  and  work  where 
these  things  are?  And  I  remembered  that  I,  my- 
self, love  these  things  that  Barnard  seemed  to  love. 
I  too  love  Italy,  but  I  know,  and  Barnard  knows, 
that  Italy  is  a  dreamland  where  everything  is  in 
the  past  and  nothing  is  in  the  future,  a  land  in 
which  there  is  no  incentive  to  work.  And  Barnard, 
doubtless,  has  energy.  The  man  who  can  build  a 
monument  like  this  must  have  great  energy.  A 
worker  does  not  go  from  here  to  Italy,  the  worker 
works  here,  where  there  is  work  to  do,  and  so  Bar- 
nard planted  himself  on  a  still  hillside  within  view, 
but  out  of  sound,  of  New  York,  and  he  collected 
stones,  old  worn  stones  from  Italy  and  France  and 
Spain,  stones  that  had  built  tradition,  and  he  built 
a  little  bit  of  old  world  at  his  gate,  where  his  soul 
might  some  day  be  at  rest. 

It  seemed  to  me  a  great  whole  explanation — and 
to  contain  such  pathos  that  I  could  not  speak  my 

thoughts.    /2t^^-, 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  from  somewhere  in  a  loft,  the 
sound  of  voices  singing.  I  looked  around  but  saw 
no  choir.  Our  presbyterian  monk  had  disappeared. 
It  was  a  charming  sound  although  it  was  grama- 
phone,  and  I  smiled  to  myself,  at  the  jingling 
mixup  of  old  world  and  new! 

Before  we  left,  the  American  monk  told  us  to 
stand  at  the  door  and  have  one  last  look,  first  from 
the  left  archway  and  then  from  the  right,  to  see  it 
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frc 


rom  every  angle.  I  gave  a  good  look  round  and 
then  inadvertantly  my  eyes  alighted  on  the  black 
robed  figure.  He  was  standing  in  exactly  the  right 
place,  in  a  set  attitude,  motionless,  well  trained. 
All  part  of  the  picture :    "Hullo  America !" 

We  had  lingered  so  long,  that  there  was  not  half 
enough  time  left  for  the  studio.  Barnard  showed 
us  his  colossal  head  of  Lincoln,  which  he  proposes 
to  carve  out  of  the  rock  of  a  hillside.  A  magnifi- 
cent idea.  We  spent  nearly  all  the  rest  of  the  time 
looking  at  his  model  and  listening  to  his  explana- 
tion of  a  great  war  memorial.  Here,  on  this  piece 
of  land  he  dreams  of  building  an  American  Acro- 
polis. He  showed  us  the  plans  of  the  circular  walls 
that  would  be  decorated  with  bronze  reliefs,  and 
the  statues  that  would  represent  each  nation  and  be 
contributed  by  the  artist  which  each  nation  would 
select  to  represent  them.  "No  war  scenes,"  he  said 
emphatically — by  which  I  gathered  he  was  a  great 
pacifist.  "We  have  had  enough  of  war  scenes,  here 
in  bold  relief  would  be  the  men  and  the  occupa- 
tions they  left,  and  the  families  and  the  homes  they 
went  away  from.  In  the  background,  in  low  relief, 
would  be  illustrated  the  idea  and  ideals  for  which 

they  fought " 

He  talked  with  his  head  towards  us,  but  his  eyes 
closed.  Introspectively,  and  with  hand  gestures,  he 
helped  to  explain  and  describe/  His  hands  are 
strong  and  his  fingers  so  short  and  thick  that  I  had 

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the  impression  that  they  had  all  been  cut  off  at  the 
second  phalange.  /2^sA.^.. 

Hisscheme  was  a  gigantic  one,  here  among  other 
things  was  the  garden  of  the  mothers.  Seven  moth- 
ers stood  sentinel  against  a  terrace  wall.  They 
were  half  carved  figures,  showing  their  breasts 
from  which  the  milk  had  flowed  that  had  fed  the 
man-babes.  From  the  waist  down  they  became  one 
with  the  graves  of  their  sons.  The  centre  mother 
was  to  represent  the  Mother  of  all  the  ages.  She 
was  to  hold  in  one  hand  her  breast,  and  the  other 
arm  out-stretched  as  if  it  nursed  the  vanished  babe. 
Her  abdomen  was  to  be  seared  and  scarred  with 
the  furrows  of  child  bearing.  He  was  insistent  and 
persistent  about  this.  The  idea  of  the  mother 
seemed  to  appeal  to  him  very  forcibly He  al- 
most awed  us  by  his  description  of  the  warrior's 
mother.  He  had  dreamt  of  her,  he  said.  He  had 
seen  her  in  visions  in  the  night.  He  showed  us  the 
small  sketch  of  his  vision,  and  of  her  warrior  son 
lying  stretched  out  at  her  feet.  Even  in  this  small 
wax  sketch  he  had  put  his  force,  his  conviction,  his 

deep  feeling It  was  almost  frightening  in  its 

severity.  ^ 

He  told  us,  too,  of  the  tree  of  peace,  all  bronze 
and  enamel,  with  golden  fruits,  and  this  was  to  be 
transparent  and  illuminated.  All  night,  every 
night,  always,  it  was  to  be  lit  up  like  a  lighthouse 
beacon,  so  that  all  who  saw  it  by  land  or  by  sea 
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would  know  that  the  light  that  shined  was  from  the 
tree  of  peace. 

Even  if  he  never  carried  out  this  part  of  the 
memorial,  he  had  an  archway  which  in  itself  was 
sufficient  and  magnificient.  The  archway  was 
formed  by  a  rainbow,  of  mosaics,  and  up  to  the 
feet  of  the  rainbow  on  one  side  came  naked  batta- 
lions of  youths  that  had  laid  down  their  lives,  and 
on  the  other  side,  reaching  up  as  it  were  to  the 
rainbow  of  hope,  came  the  refugees,  men,  women 
and  children. 

There  was  much  more  that  I  cannot  relate. 
Barnard  told  it  to  us  for  an  hour  or  more,  and  we 
stood  and  listened  and  watched,  silently  enthralled. 
Every  now  and  then  Childe  Hassam,  putting  aside 
his  own  artist's  soul,  would  draw  out  his  watch  and 
look  at  the  time  threateningly  and  suggestively.  I 
pushed  his  watch  aside  and  whispered  to  him  that 
time  for  this  once  did  not  exist,  nor  appointments, 

nor  meals Could  one  interrupt  a  man's  vision 

by  observing  the  time?  ^v<^^ 

Lastly,  he  unveiled  for  us  the  marble  head  of 
Lincoln.  It  stood  on  a  pedestal  facing  a  window  of 
which  the  blind  was  drawn. "  As  we  stood  before  it, 
the  master  slowly,  very  slowly,  released  the  light, 
and  as  he  did  so  the  shadow  from  beneath  Lincoln's 
brow  was  dispelled,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  have 
life,  and  to  look  up  with  all  the  pity  and  the  tender- 
ness and  the  human  sympathy  of  a  superman.     It 

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was  not  Lincoln  the  man  of  sorrows,  it  was  not 
Lincoln  the  thinker,  it  was  Lincoln  the  great  un- 
derstanding idealist,  and  there  was  so  much  of 
love  and  sadness  in  the  marble  face  that  I,  a  nor-4 
mal  woman,  had  tears  streaming  down  my  face, 
and  I  was  ashamed. 

Mr.  Galatly  has  brought  this  Lincoln  head  to 
present  to  the  Luxembourg  Gallery. 

As  for  the  soul  of  Barnard,  and  the  vision,  and 

-    .  •■'■■. 
the  imagination,  and  the  energy,  and  the  selfless- 
ness of  him — it  is  immense. 

Sunday,  March  6,  192 1. 

I  lunched  with  Griffen  Barry  and  Kenneth  Du- 
rant  at  the  Brevoort.  Jo  Davidson  came  in  with 
a  party;  he  came  and  talked  to  us.  Whenever  I 
am  with  Kenneth  I  meet  Jo  Davidson!  He  at- 
tacked me  about  it — he  said  I  was  always  with  Bol- 
sheviks! He  knows  I  like  them,  and  I  know  he 
likes  them  too !    It  is  a  great  joke. 

After  lunch  I  went  up  to  the  Numesmatic  So- 
ciety; as  it  was  a  beautiful  afternoon,  five  hundred 
people  appeared!  h     z 

I'd  like  a  picture  of  rather  stout  middle-aged 
ladies,  in  high  ostrich  plumed  hats,  scrutinizing 
closely  and  carefully  through  lorgnettes  the  un- 
flinching bronzes  of  the  Soviet  leaders. 

One  man  came  who  looked  exactly  like  Trotzky, 
though  with  a  shaven  chin,  but  he  had  the  same 
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profile,  the  keen  eye,  the  clear  skin,  and  the  stand- 
up  hair.  I  introduced  myself  to  him  and  said,  "Do 
you  know  who  you  look  like?"  He  smiled,  "Yes, 
I  have  seen  myself  in  the  glass — I  know."  He  told 
me  he  was  Russian,  and  I  saw  he  was  a  Jew.  He 
said  he  hoped  to  go  back  to  his  country  some  day 
and  help.  The  man  was  a  dormant  Trotzky,  the 
sort  of  man  who  if  rouseH,  or  in  similar  conditions, 
might  evolve  into  anything. 

I  dined  with  the  Ralph  Pulitzers, — they  have 
some  nice  things,  including  one  or  two  good 
Rodins.  He  was  a  real  appreciator  of  good  things. 
Laurette  Taylor  and  her  husband  were  there,  and 
the  Swopes.  Laurette  Taylor  has  great  charm, 
talks  well,  and  seems  to  have  more  vision  and  to  be 
less  self-centred  than  the  usual  people  of  the  stage 
— and  I  like  her  husky  voice. 

I  sat  next  to  Frank  P.  Adams,  whose  modern 
"Pepys'  Diary"  I  have  read  from  time  to  time. 
Goodness  knows  if  he  meant  to  be  interesting  or 
was  really  indifferent.  He  told  me  he  had  been 
invited  to  meet  me  half  a  dozen  times,  but  had  re- 
fused. Exactly  why  he  had  refused,  I  was  unable 
to  make  out.  But  short  of  saying,  "You  are  the 
divinest  woman  I've  ever  met,  and  IVe  been  fol- 
lowing you  three-quarters  of  the  way  round  the 
world  to  make  your  acquaintance,"  he  could 
hardly  have  said  anything  more  arresting  to  a 
woman's  attention. 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

Tuesday,  March  8,  1921. 

I  lunched  with  Mrs.  Lorrilard  Spencer,  and  met 
there  an  extremely  interesting  woman.  She  had  a 
hawk's  eye,  but  a  kindly  smile.  It  was  the  face  of 
a  "femme  savante."  She  was  Mrs.  Eliot,  and  I 
never  found  out  till  later  that  she  was  a  daughter 
of  Julia  Ward  Howe,  the  author  of  the  Battle 
Hymn  of  the  Republic. 

Walking  down  Fifth  Avenue  in  the  afternoon,  a. 
woman  caught  me  up  and  asked  if  I  was  Mrs. 
Sheridan.  She  said  she  was  the  Communist  woman 
who  came  up  and  spoke  to  me  after  my  lecture  at 
the  Aeolian  Hall.  I  remembered  her  emotional 
Russian  face.  Her  name,  she  said,  was  Rose  Pastor 
Stokes.  She  had  liked  my  sincerity  and  impartial- 
ity about  the  Soviet  leaders.  She  apologized  for 
not  being  able  to  ask  me  to  a  meal  in  her  house 
(why  should  she  apologize  or  ask  me)  ?  Her  ex- 
planation was  that  she  had  married  a  millionaire, 
and  he  had  "reverted  to  type"  with  the  result  that 
their  meals  were  rather  silent!  I  asked  her  to  come 
and  see  me,  but  she  said  that  she  was  under  police 
surveillance  and  she  did  not  wish  to  compromise 
me. 

We  walked  some  way  together. 

Thursday,  March  10,  1921. 

Kenneth  Durant  arrived  to  take  me  out  to  din- 
ner, and  with  him  came  Mr.  Humphries,  whom 
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I'd  last  seen  in  Moscow  where  he  was  working  in 
Tchicherin's  office.  He  left  two  days  before  I  did, 
but  went  over  the  Trans-Siberian  to  China  and 
thence  to  Honolulu  where  his  wife  lives.  We  meet 
in  New  York,  having  between  us  encircled  the 
world! 

I  asked  him  laughingly,  what  he  thought  of  my 
having  become  an  authority  on  Russia!  He  said 
that  he  had  to  take  it  rather  seriously  when  he  read 
extracts  from  my  Moscow  diary  in  the  Chinese 
papers! 

After  dinner  we  went  to  Crystal  Eastman's.  She 
edits  the  LIBERATOR  and  her  husband,  whose  name 
is  Fuller,  is  on  the  FREEMAN.  I  liked  them.  I 
liked  her  particularly.  She  is  goood  looking,  and 
extremely  decorative.  She  sails  into  a  room  with 
her  head  high  and  the  face  of  a  triumphant  Vic- 
tory. The  atmosphere  was  such  as  I  recall  in  Mos- 
cow— hospitality  that  was  simple  and  friendly,  and 
discussions  that  were  interesting  and  humorous.  I 
feel  so  proud  that  this  sort  of  people  are  nice  to 
me.  It  is  easy  enough  to  be  received  by  what  is 
vulgarly  called  the  "upper  ten."  They  open  their 
doors  to  breeding  or  money,  but  among  these  others 
one  can  only  get  in  through  accomplishment. 

Friday,  March  ii,  1921. 

Mr.  Pulitzer  called  for  me  at  midday  in  his  car 
and  we  went  out  to  Barnard's  studio.    Mr.  Pulitzer 

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had  never  been  there.  At  first  Mr.  Barnard 
thought  my  companion  was  an  Englishman  and 
talked  as  perhaps  he  would  not  if  he  had  known 
he  was  talking  to  the  owner  of  The  WORLD. 

Mr.  Pulitzer  is  so  calm,  so  restrained,  and  Mr. 
Barnard  is  so  overflowing  with  enthusiasm!  I  led 
the  way  to  the  lovely  cloister  and  Barnard  joined 
us  there  and  gave  us  an  archealogical  discourse, 
much  to  the  edification  of  two  American  tourist 
ladies  who  pretended  not  to  listen,  but  were 
secretly  enthalled. 

The  American  verger  was  terribly  in  evidence, 
and  at  the  end,  when  he  poses  and  demands  one 
should  view  him  from  two  different  points,  he  first 
of  all  firmly  closed  the  door  on  Mr.  Barnard  who 
waited  outside;  but  who  went  out,  I  thought,  a 
little  too  readily.  It  is  a  terribly  put-up  job,  and 
I'm  afraid  Barnard  connives!  It  spoils  everything 
and  makes  the  beautiful  cloister  laughable. 

Mr.  Pulitzer  dropped  me  at  the  Pierpont  Mor- 
gans for  tea.  Florrie  Grenfeli  and  her  husband 
are  staying  there,  and  have  been  yachting  with 
them  in  the  Indies. 

Mrs.  Morgan  and  her  daughter  and  son  were 
there,  the  mother  looked  like  their  sister.  The 
atmosphere  of  restraint  and  politeness  among 
themselves  gave  one  the  impression  of  being  with 
Austrian  Royalties.      of^^tJ  iv%. 

Florrie  Grenfeli  took  me  over  to  the  library.  It 
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GEORGE  GRAY  BARNARD  DESCRIBING  HIS   CLOISTERS 
TO   CLARE  SHERIDAN 

(Photograph   by    Ralph    Tulitzer,    Esq.)       / 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

is  a  wonderful  place,  and  inconceivable  that  it  is  a 
private  possession.  Everything  is  arranged  and 
labelled  as  though  it  were  a  public  museum.  Even 
the  bibelots  have  their  labels,  and  the  smallest 
thing  on  a  shelf  is  a  priceless  work  of  art.  There 
was  a  little  bronze  Benvenuto  Cellini,  a  Michael 
Angelo  baby  head,  a  Botticelli  on  an  easel — etc., 
etc.  I  asked  if  the  place  were  open  certain  days  a 
week  to  the  public,  but  was  told  no. 

When  we  came  out,  I  saw  two  men  leaning 
against  the  lamp  post.  Florrie  Grenfell  said  they 
were  detectives.  I  asked  her  how  she  knew — she 
said  she  had  been  there  long  enough  to  know  them 
by  sight!  Round  the  angle  of  the  block,  opposite 
the  front  door  was  another.  I  observed  that  this  was 
rather  fantastic;  but  the  answer  is  that  the  police 
say  they  will  not  be  responsible  for  Mr.  Morgan's 
life,  and  he  has  already  been  shot  at!  It  seems  to  me 
that  if  he  metaphorically  shook  hands  with  the 
world,  he'd  be  as  safe  as,  for  instance,  our  Prince 
of  Wales.    The  world  reacts  to  one's  own  attitude. 

Saturday,  March  12, 192 1. 

Kenneth  and  I  dined  together  and  then  he  took 
me  among  poets  in  Greenwich  Village.  Genevieve 
Taggard,  whose  apartment  we  met  in,  is  a  lovely 
and  graceful  being.  An  interesting  Russian  was 
there,  Vladimir  Simkhovitch.  He  took  us  to  his 
apartment  afterwards,  and  opening  a  cupboard,  he 

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unrolled  and  hung  up  on  the  wall  series  of  Chi- 
nese paintings.  He  is  a  great  authority  on  Oriental 
Art.  He  loves  his  things.  He  produced  from  his 
treasure  store  those  that  suited  his  mood.  Poems, 
in  brown  guache,  or  else  portraits  full  of  character 
and  mystery.  He  values  them  far  above  Gains- 
boroughs  !  Each  one  of  the  pictures  was  something 
that  one  longed  to  be  alone  with,  and  to  think  over, 
and  absorb.  As  I  was  leaving,  he  presented  me 
with  a  terra  cotta  Chinese  "Tanagra"  Ming  period. 
...  A  truly  Oriental  impulse — we  are  going  back 
again! 

St.  Patrick's  Day,  March  17,  1921. 

I  took  Dick  and  Louise  and  little  Walter  Rosen 
and  his  governess  to  view  the  Sinn  Fein  proces- 
sion. All  down  Fifth  Avenue,  even  to  where  we 
were,  opposite  the  Metropolitan  Museum,  the 
crowd  was  dense.  I  never  realized  so  many  Irish 
and  such  a  Sinn  Fein  majority.  After  three  hours 
of  it  I  found  a  taxi  opposite  the  Plaza  Hotel  and 
jumped  in.  We  were  blocked  a  long  time,  owing 
to  traffic  disorganization,  and  as  the  window  be- 
tween us  in  front  was  open  we  talked.  The  taxi 
driver  observed  that  if  some  of  these  Irish  really 
wanted  to  help  Ireland,  why  didn't  they  go  back — - 
instead  of  carrying  placards  deploring  the  fact  that 
they  have  but  one  life  to  lose  for  their  country. 
Why  not  go  back  and  lose  it,  or  offer  it?  He  said 
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to  me:  "Some  Irishmen  were  jeering  at  me  the 
other  day,  and  calling  me  a  Russian  Jew — I  said 
to  them  that  at  least  the  Russian  Jews  had  been 
consistent.  Having  been  persecuted,  they  sud- 
denly one  day  got  up  and  murdered  their  Czar— 
I  said  to  these  Irishmen,  instead  of  complaining 
so,  why  don't  you  go  and  kill  George?" 

I  was  interested  that  he  was  Russian,  and  told 
him  I  had  just  come  from  Russia,  where  I  had  seen 
a  good  deal  of  Lenin  and  Trotzky — the  taxi  driver 
then  asked  me,  "Are  you  the  lady  I've  read 
of — ?"  I  said  my  name — he  said  he  was  proud 
to  meet  me.  He  then  held  forth  about  Lenin:  "I 
regard  him  as  the  Abraham  Lincoln  of  his 
country.  . .  ." 

Saturday,  March  19,  1921. 

Mrs.  Junius  Morgan  fetched  me  at  eleven  A.M. 
in  her  car  and  took  me  to  the  studio  of  Mr.  G.  B., 
the  sculptor.  He  received  us  very  ill,  having  as  he 
said  a  "sick  headache"  and  having  caught  a  chill 
at  a  dinner  party  the  previous  evening  he  had 
vomited  all  night.  He  certainly  looked  like  a  bear 
with  a  sore  head.  He  didn't  know  how  to  be  civil 
to  us.  Mrs.  Junius,  sweet  and  smiling,  treated  him 
as  though  he  were  the  most  charming  man  in  the 
world,  and  as  though  she  took  for  granted  that  we 
were  welcome.    It  was  probably  the  best  way. 

He  too  had  done  a  Lincoln  head,  and  it  had  been 

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reduced  to  miniature,  so  had  Harding's.  His  as- 
sistants were  at  work  piecing  together  the  plaster 
sketch  of  a  big  memorial  he  is  about  to  do,  called 
"the  wars  of  America."  I  could  tell  nothing  from 
the  fragmentary  plastercast,  but  the  photographs 
of  the  thing  complete  looked  fine. 

He  asked  me  who  I'd  studied  with.  I  forgot  to 
ask  him.  He  abused  Epstein  and  showed  Mrs. 
Junius  all  the  worst  things  in  the  Epstein  book. 
Mrs.  Junius,  who  is  an  amateur,  and  conventional, 
was  not  able  to  appreciate  the  best  of  Epstein. 
B.  asked  me  fiercely  if  I  had  come  to  this  country 
to  live;  I  don't  know  if  I  have  or  not,  I  told  him, 
I  thought  not! 

As  we  were  preparing  to  go,  he  pulled  himself 
together.  Either  he  wanted  to  atone  or  the  vision 
of  our  departure  put  new  life  into  him.  He  turned 
to  me  suddenly  and  said,  "What  do  you  think  of 
Lenin?" 

He  then  held  forth  to  us  on  the  three  men  of  con- 
temporary history,  Kaiser  Wilhelm,  President 
Wilson,  and  Lenin.  The  former  who  had  inherited 
his  power,  the  second  who  had  it  offered  to  him, 
the  third  who  took  it.  We  agreed  that  the  greatest 
of  the  three  is  the  one  who  takes  it.  What  had  the 
other  two  done  with  their  invested  power?  Let  us 
see  what  Lenin  is  still  to  do. 

I  dined  with  Mrs.  Willard  Straight,  almost  the 
nicest  woman  I've  met  since  I  arrived  here.  She 
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gives  one  a  feeling  of  sincerity  and  absence  of  pose. 
She  is  real.  It  was  a  delightful  party,  the  Walter 
Lipmanns  and  Bullitts  and  B.  Berenson,  all  people 
I  like,  were  there.  Her  house  has  the  right 
atmosphere. 

March  23,  1921. 

I  spent  the  afternoon  at  Knoedlers,  who  have 
very  generously  taken  on  my  exhibition  from  the 
Numesmatic  Society  for  two  weeks.  My  things 
look  well  in  their  big  room,  and  it  is  comic  to  see 
the  Soviet  leaders  daring  to  show  their  faces  in 
Fifth  Avenue!  No  one  looks  at  Winston  or 
Asquith,  they  go  straight  to  the  Russians,  as  though 
fascinated  with  horror! 

Crystal  Eastman  and  her  husband  took  me  to 
dinner  at  the  Hill  Club,  where  I  had  to  speak.  I 
sat  between  Mr.  Boardman  Robinson  and  Dr. 
Parker.  Boardman  Robinson  is  the  author  of  the 
cartoon  in  the  Liberator,  "Capitalism  Looks  Itself 
Over,"  a  horrible  and  terrible  and  wonderful  con- 
ception. Mr.  Robinson  has  red  hair  and  beard. 
He  looks  like  the  pictures  of  Judas  Iscariot  or 
maybe  it's  St.  Peter  he  reminds  me  of.  In  which 
case  small  chance  of  Heaven  for  the  rich!  He'd 
unlock  the  gates  to  all  the  radicals. 

Dr.  Parker  is  a  psycho-analycist,  bearded  and 
bespectacled.    Alarming  at  first — one  is  inevitably  x^^r^h^M^ 

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ill  at  ease  with  a  psycho-analycist.  It  is  not  vanity 
to  say  that  one  instantly  becomes  self-conscious,  as 
if  the  deep-eyed  man  were  already  analysing  one, 
and  looking  down  into  a  heart  that  perhaps  does 
-  not  bear  looking  into !  Finally  I  discussed  the  thing 
with  him  openly.  I  told  him  that  I  knew  nothing 
of  psycho-analysis  and  didn't  want  to — that  I 
thought  it  encouraged  people  to  become  even  more 
concentrated  upon  themselves  than  they  were  al- 
ready! Then,  the  ice  being  broken,  we  talked 
openly  and  simply  about  anything  and  everything. 
He  took  his  glasses  off  and  became  quite  unserious. 
It  was  due  partly  to  him  that  when  I  stood  up  to 
speak  I  was  in  a  flippant  mood.  Either  the  party 
took  its  mood  from  me,  or  I  from  it..  I  rather 
incline  to  the  latter.  At  all  events,  I  said  all  I 
wanted  to  say,  uncompromisingly,  about  Russia.  I 
put  forth  all  the  best  that  I  had  seen.  I  risked 
the  label  of  Bolshevik  and  propagandist.  Indeed, 
as  I  pointed  out  to  them— Bolshevism  is  over  .  .  . 
the  New  York  papers  have  it  in  headlines — ! 
England  has  signed  the  trade  agreement,  Lenin 
has  ceased  to  be  Red  and  Bolshevism  is  over! 
Therefore  I  am  free  at  last  to  say  what  I  like.  And 
the  people  who  listen  have  no  longer  the  cause  for 
panic!  I  went  on  lightly  and  humorously  and  they 
laughed,  laughed  even  when  I  didn't  expect  them 
to. 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

Thursday,  March  24,  1921. 

At  my  exhibition  at  Knoedlers',  continue  to  meet 
new  ^people  and  make  new  friends.  This  after- 
noon I  was  introduced  to  Morris  Korbel,  the 
Czecho-Slovak  sculptor.  He  asked  to  know  me 
and  was  complimentary  about  my  work  which  is 
.-•/.-  much  from. a  fellow  sculptor.  He  is  good  look- 
ing in  a  foreign  way— wild  haired,  deep  eyed, 
deep  voiced,  rather  intense  and  dramatic  in  his 
personality.  He  told  me  he  was  going  to  Europe 
in  a  week  as  his  wife  was  there.  He  said  he  was 
,-v  "intellectually  starved,  and  must  get  back  for  a 
while  to  the  old  world.  He  said  that  I  should  find 
I  could  only  live  here  about  nine  months  on  end 
without  going  away.  He  was,  nevertheless  ap- 
preciative of  the  generosity  and  hospitality  of 
America.  "They  take  their  pound  of  flesh,"  he 
said,  "but  they  are  generous  and  appreciative  in 
turn.  But  one  must  go,  and  come  back,  and  goy 
again  .  .  ."  he  said.     , 

He  admitted  that  he  went  to  Europe  this  time 
with  some  reluctance,  as  he  had  planned  to  go  to 
Mexico  where  he  had  a  portrait  order  to  do  Presi- 
dent Obregon.  I  suddenly  had  a  vision  .  .  .  "Are 
you  definitely  not  going  to  do  that  order?"  I  asked 
him.  He  said  he  thought  not.  "Then  will  you 
hand  it  on  to  me  .  .  .  ?"  I  saw  my  new  road  mapped 
out  before  me.  Korbel  did  not  say  a  great  deal, 
he  probably  thought  I  was  not  serious  or  that  it 

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l 

was  not  practicable.  "The  Mexicans  are  not  like 
the  Bolsheviks — "  he  said  warningly.  (One  up  for 
my  friends  the  Bolsheviks!!  Even  reliability  is 
only  a  matter  of  comparison — !) 

He  asked  me  to  lunch  with  him  tomorrow  at 
the  Ritz  and  then  I  will  pursue  this  thing  further. 

Friday,  March  25,  1921. 

Lunched  with  Morris  Korbel  at  the  Ritz,  and 
had  an  orgy  of  discussion.  He  is  full  of  thoughts. 
He  sees  the  world  from  the  point  of  view  of  a 
1  '  '  looker-on.  His  analysis  of  the  United  States  and 
its  inhabitants  was  very  illuminating.  I  am  still 
watching,  and  undecided.  He  has  his  views.  He 
thinks  it  is  a  great  country  and  (with  the  excep- 
tion of  New  York)  more  appreciative  of  Art  and 
more  encouraging  than  any  other  country.  More- 
over, it  has  developed  its  own  Art.  We  compiled 
together  a  goodly  list  of  American  artists.  He 
talked  about  the  extraordinary  advance  of  America 
in  architecture,  for  instance — over  any  other  coun- 
try in  the  world  today,  and  its  efficiency  in  Science, 
and  Hygiene.  He  described  to  me  "the  west,"  the 
agricultural  districts,  the  orchards — how  they  are 
planted,  and  drained.  How  the  sluice  gates  open 
once  a  day  and  acres  are  watered  systematically. 
How  these  people  just  "rape  Nature,"  as  he  ex- 
pressed it,  and  get  all  there  is  to  be  had  out  of  it. 
We  reviewed  the  miracle  of  the  race.  How  all  the 
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foreign  peoples  come  into  the  melting  pot  and  turn 
out  an  American  type.  He  said,  and  truly,  that 
with  the  exception  of  England,  no  country  breeds 
women  with  such  long  legs  and  thin  ankles  and 
wrists.  They  are  beautiful.  And  as  for  the  men 
— where  else  do  they  rise  from  working  men  and 
become  Kings?  ("In  Soviet  Russia FT  murmured.)    '■■■'-" 

Kenneth  Durant  fetched  me  at  six-thirty  and  we 
took  the  over-head-railway  and  went  to  East  Side. 
Where,  making  our  way  through  a  maize  of  play- 
ing children,  we  dined  in  the  Roumanian  restau- 
rant. It  was  as  though  in  a  few  minutes  one  had 
suddenly  gone  abroad  to  a  foreign  country.  I 
have  never  had  the  sensation  in  New  York  that  I 
was  a  foreigner,  perhaps  that  is  because  I  am  half 
American,  or  because  we  all  speak  English. 

In  the  East  Side  people  talked  Italian  or  else  ( 
that  other  strange  language  that  newspapers  are 
printed  in,  and  which  looks  like  a  mixture  of  Rus- 
sian and  Arabic !  A  newspaper  boy  brought  in  the 
evening  papers  to  the  Roumanian  restaurant  while 
we  were  there,  and  when  I  asked  him  if  he  couldn't 
bring  in  something  I  could  read,  the  other  people 
laughed.  We  ordered  some  steak  for  our  dinner, 
and  when  the  waiter  brought  enough  for  a  school 
treat  I  exclaimed,  and  he  said,  "In  Broadway  they 
serve  the  dishes— here  we  serve  the  food!"  They  ' 
did  indeed;  even  sharing  it  with  a  starving  cat  I 
couldn't  get  through  with  it.    The  restaurant  was 

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rather  a  good  one  and  very  clean.  I  reproached 
Kenneth  for  not  having  taken  me  somewhere  with 
more  local  color.  I  hate  being  treated  as  a  Bour- 
geoise.  &*&  *■ c 

The  evening  was  very  warm,  and  the  restaurant 
door  was  open.  East  Side  has  its  background  of 
sound  like  any  other  place.  In  Pittsburgh  it  is  the 
sound  of  the  mills,  like  the  roar  of  the  sea.  In 
New  York  it  is  the  trams  and  the  traffic  and  the 
overhead  trains.  In  East  Side  (at  night)  it  is  the 
voices  of  laughing  playing  children.  What  heaps 
of  children!  The  streets  were  full  of  them.  One 
tumbled  over  them,  one  bumped  into  them,  one 
dodged  them,  as  in  the  side  streets  of  Naples.  Some 
of  the  smaller  children,  smaller  than  Dick,  sat 
crumpled  up  in  a  doorway  or  leaning  against  a 
lamp-post,  weary  and  sleepy.  It  was  nearly  ten 
o'clock  at  night,  and  they  were  not  in  bed.  The 
streets  were  strewn  with  papers  as  after  a  picnic. 
I  said  to  Kenneth,  "Why  aren't  the  streets 
cleaned?"  and  he  said  because  people  were  so  busy 
cleaning  the  streets  where  I  live.  I  said,  "Why 
don't  the  children  go  to  bed?"  and  he  said  because 
there  were  twenty  people  to  a  room,  and  it  was 
easier  to  leave  the  children  out  in  the  street  as 
long  as  possible. 

We  walked  and  walked,  a  long  way,  through  ill- 
lit  side  streets  where  women  sat  out  on  their  door- 
steps, watching  sleeping  babies  in  perambulators, 
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or  suckling  them  at  the  breast.  The  main  streets 
were  brightly  lit,  and  the  stalls  by  the  sidewalk 
were  doing  a  busy  trade  in  tawdry  goods  as  in  the 
Zucharefski  Market  of  Moscow.  We  bought  roast 
chestnuts  and  ate  them  as  we  walked  along.  I 
bought  a  pot  of  red  tulips  growing — for  Dick. 
They  were  cheaper  here,  but  they  were  heavy  and 
Kenneth  had  to  carry  them,  but  he  didn't  com- 
plain. 

Saturday,  March  26,  1921. 

We  have  been  here  nearly  two  months,  and  in 
those  two  months  we  have  learnt  that  American 
ideas  are  on  the  whole,  good  ideas.  There  is  usual- 
ly reason  in  most  things  that  Americans  do,  and 
good  reasons,  as  for  instance,  in  prohibition.  But 
there  is  another  prohibition  quite  different  from 
the  one  that  most  people  talk  about,  and  it's  unex- 
plained. It  concerns  Dick.  When  I  say  that^  it 
concerns  him'T  do  not  mean  that  it  affects  him 
alone.  He  is  merely  voicing  the  great  "why?"  of 
a  million  children,  who  may  not  walk  on  the  grass 
in  Central  Park.  "Keep  Off"— "Keep  Off"  is 
written  everywhere.  It  takes  a  great  manv  men  in 
uniform  to  enforce  this  prohibition.  Strang  men, 
vigilant  men,  diligent  men,  too.  Just  as  the  police- 
men seem  to  be  picked  for  Fifth  Avenue  traffic, 
policemen  who  seem  to  be  entirely  friendly 
towards  children/ whose  one  idea  is  to  help  them 

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across  the  street  and  to  laugh  and  joke  with  them 
as  he  does  so  (Dick  has  several  friends  on  the 
Avenue)  just  so  the  parkmen  seem  to  be  picked 
for  their  job.  They  are  hard  men,  cold  men,  they 
smile  not  neither  do  they  joke.  They  are  like  people 
who  have  been  too  long  with  children.  I  learnt 
my  lesson  a  few  days  ago  when  for  a  great  treat 
Dick  took  me  for  a  walk  in  Central  Park.  With 
the  perfect  courage  of  an  ignorant  person,  I  tossed 
my  head,  drank  in  deep  breaths  of  fresh  spring  air, 
and  strode  out  across  the  open.  It  was  the  first  day 
of  spring,  and  how  good  it  seemed.  Suddenly 
Dick  seized  my  arm  and  pointing  to  a  distant  blot 
in  the  landscape  said  to  me,  "That  is  for  you — 
don't  you  hear  the  whistle?"  I  confessed  I  heard 
a  whistle,  but  I  thought  someone  was  calling  a 
dog.  "That  is  for  you  to  get  off  the  grass — ."  But 
I  was  a  long  way  on  the  grass.  I  seemed  to  be_in 
the  middle  of  a  sea  of  green.  True,  no  one  was  on 
it  but  myself,  but  that  had  not  seemed  to  <me 
peculiar.  If  I  thought  about  it  at  all  I  just  thought 
Americans  lwere  too  busy  to  loaf  like  me,  in  the 

sun-  i/*w^&E£^ 

"Are  you  sure  we  mayn't  walk  on  the  grass?"  I 

asked  Dick.    He  was  quite  sure,  and  made  some 

signal  to  the  whistleman  to  the  effect  that  we  would 

remove  ourselves  to  the  far  distant  path. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  I  asked  him.    And 

then  I  learnt  what  prohibition  means;  that  you  do 

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the  thing  that  is  prohibited  just  as  often  as  you  can, 
until  you  are  found  out.  What  a  game  for  one's 
early  days — to  dodge  the  law,  and  deliberately 
break  it  on  every  possible  occasion. 

I  asked  a  park-keeper  whom  I  met  later  on 
what  the  regulations  were  and  learnt  that  towards 
May  there  are  certain  places  in  the  park  that  may 
be  walked  on,  in  turn.  This  will  be  indicated  by 
a  flag  flying  high  or  a  flag  lying  low,  I  couldn't 
quite  make  out.  The  children  had  been  unlucky 
this  year,  the  keeper  said,  because  there  had  been 
so  little  snow,  which  enables  them  to  go  anywhere. 

Dick  is  unlucky,  because  he  arrived  in  New 
York  in  February,  and  will  leave  before  May,  so 
he  has  missed  and  will  miss  any  chance  of  walking 
on  the  grass! 

This  afternoon  we  were  lent  a  car,  so  I  drove 
him,  with  Louise,  to  a  part  of  Central  Park  that  he 
has  talked  of  for  days.  It  was  not  the  grassy  part 
(the  view  of  that  green  space  was  enjoyed  very 
much.  It  was  most  gratifying  and  pleasing  to  the 
eye  as  we  sped  by  luxuriously  in  our  limousine!). 
I  dropped  him  at  the  wooded  hillside  which  is 
like  the  country.     You  can  see  no  houses,  just 


(3 


wooded  slopes  and  streams  and  waterfalls  and 
ponds.  He  took  his  submarine  and  his  steamer 
with  him,  and  I  left  him  there.  When  he  came 
home  in  the  evening  I  asked  him  if  he  had  en- 
joyed it.    He  said,  "The  park  men  wouldn't  let  me 

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sail  my  ships — but  I  did !"  He  went  on  to  explain 
that  whenever  he  j)ut  his  ships  in  the  water  a 
"  whistle  was  blown.     Finally  he  and  Louise  got 

under  a  bridge,  and  under  cover  succeeded  in 
breaking  the  prohibition  rule  for  some  time. 

"Some  day — ,"  and  there  was  a  gleam  in  Dick's 
eye  that  was  something  more  than  just  the  naughty 
look  of  a  mischievous  boy — "someday  when  I  am  a 
man,  I  shall  have  a  gun,  and  I  shall  shoot  every 
man  with  a  whistle."  "Oh,  Dick,"  I  protested. 
"Yes  I  shall — I  shall  be  a  Revolutioner!" 

And  that  is  surely  the  effect  on  the  young  of  a 
prohibition  that  cannot  be  explained.  Dick  knows 
of  no  reason  why  he  should  not  walk  on  the  grass, 
nor  sail  his  ships  in  the  streams;  what  is  grass  for? 
Why  is  there  a  park  at  all?  There  is  one  pond  in 
Central  Park  for  children's  ships,  and  there  is  a 
playground  for  children's  balls.  But  one  small 
pond  and  one  dusty  playground,  what  is  that 
among  so  many  children?  In  such  a  big  park? 

On  St.  Patrick's  Day,  Dick  and  I  came  back 
through  the  Park  from  the  Metropolitan  Museum, 
and  the  procession  was  still  passing  by.  People 
might  not  even  stand  on  a  rocky  eminence  to  look 
over  the  wall.  A  parkman  stood  there,  whistle  in 
mouth,  proudly,  defiantly,  king  of  all  he  surveyed. 
Over  the  wall  came  the  sound  of  the  bands,  and 
the  marching  feet,  but  only  the  park-keeper  could 
see  the  procession.  '  Big-eyed  children  s'tood  there, 
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open-mouthed,  at  the  sound  of  the  "Wearing  of 
the  Green."  Truly  he  was  not  an  Irishman,  that 
^park-keeper.  And  now  I  feel  sad,  and  rather 
anxious,  as  spring  is  coming.  I  have  work  that  '"<" 
keeps  me  a  while  longer  in  the  city.  Should  I 
send  Dick  to  a  boarding-school  in  the  country,  so 
that  he  may  enjoy  the  spring?  So  that  he  should 
not  have  daily  to  endure  the  sight  of  green  grass 
viewed  from  a  narrow  gravel  path,  a  path  in  which 
1  he  may  not  even  dig,  or  build  sand  castles.  Must 
I  send  him  away  so  that  he  shall  not  grow  into  a 
law-breaker  and  a  "Revolutioner"? 

What  we  really  want  to  know,  is:  Who  does 
the  green  grass  grow  for,  in  Central  Park? 

Monday,  March  28,  192 1. 

Have  spent  the  Easter  week-end  in  bed.  I  slept 
almost  on  end  for  sixty-eight  hours,  mentally  and 
physically  perfectly  exhausted.  It  was  heaven  be- 
ing in  bed,  and  I  didn't  attempt  to  read  nor  write, 
or  even  think. 

Today  I  arose,  slightly  rested,  and  lunched  with 
Emil  Fuchs.  Louis  Wiley  was  the  only  other 
presence.  I  like  seeing  him,  I  always  discover 
which  way  the  wind  is  blowing.  We  talked  about 
England's  trade  agreement  with  Russia,  and  I  said 
— rather  provokingly  perhaps,  "I  suppose  America 
is  waiting  to  see  if  Russia  really  has  anything  to 
trade  with.     It  would  be  a  great  joke  if  she  has, 

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and  if  England  gets  it  all."    Mr.  Wiley  answered 
rather  maliciously,    "England   can   have    it — she 
needs  it,  and  it  may  help  her  to  pay  us  back — ." 
So!    That's  the  undercurrent,  is  it? 

Tuesday,  March  29,  19^1. 

I  dined  in  Brooklyn  and  spoke  afterwards  at 
the  Twentieth  Century  Club.  This  had  been  ar- 
ranged for  me  by  Mr.  Keedick.  I  asked  what  sort 
of  audience  I  should  have  to  talk  'to,  (meaning 
would  it  be  radical,  reactionary,  artistic,  or  Semitic 
— )  and  was  told  they  were  "ladies  and  gentle- 
men!" Thus  illuminated  I  trimmed  my  sails  ac- 
cordingly. I  dined  with  some  charming  people 
first,  and  to  my  astonishment,  there  was  a  most 
beautiful  Sir  Joshua  in  the  drawing-room.  It  was 
a  lovely  nude  bacchante,  and  at  her  feet  a  little 
faun  playing  the  flute.  I  asked  incredulously,  "Is 
that  a  real  Sir  Joshua?"  My  hostess  answered, 
"Yes,  and  I  confess  I  am  very  fond  of  it,  though  I 
never  should  have  thought  I  could  have  a  nude  in 
my  drawing-room,  especially  with  a  daughter 
growing  up." 

Friday,  April  i,  1921. 

I  have  had  rather  a  wonderful  morning.  I  was 
taken  to  the  apartment  of  a  man  who  collects 
Italian  primitives.  He  is  young,  as  yet  only  about 
twenty-seven,  and  one  of  the  amazing  products  of 
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this  country.  His  mother,  they  say,  was  a  washer- 
woman, (why  not?)  and  he  determined  to  go 
through  college.  At  Harvard  he  paid  his  own  way 
by  buying  up  the  trouser  press  industry  and  syndi- 
cating it,  and  putting  himself  at  the  head.  He 
made  a  fortune  by  pressing  the  undergraduates' 
trousers.  This  is  the  "on-dit,"  probably  it  is  quite 
inaccurate,  and  he  would  tell  a  very  different  story. 
Anyway  it's  a  good  story,  and  the  fundamental 
thing  is  that  he  arose,  from  nowhere,  out  of  the 
blue,  so  to  speak.  What  his  work  is  now  I  didn't 
hear,  but  he  is  collecting  Italian  primitives.  We 
saw  them  all  before  he  came  in.  There  were  Bot- 
ticelli's, Fra  Angelico's,  Filippo  Lippi,  Bellini, 
and  countless  others.  Each  one  was  lovely,  and 
one  felt  much  loved.  The  rooms  were  simply  but 
beautifully  furnished  with  Italian  pieces.  In  the 
dining-room  the  table  was  laid,  and  next  to  the 
owner's  place  was  a  book  from  which  he  reads  out 
a  little  prayer,  for  grace,  before  each  meal.  It 
sounded  affected,  but  I  was  assured  it  came  from  a 
deeply  fervent  spirit.  I  marvelled  much  over  this 
young  man  before  I  saw  him.  His  bedroom  was 
chaste  and  hung  with  Madonnas,  he  had  tall 
candles  and  things  that  suggested  holiness!  There 
was  only  one  personal  note  in  the  whole  place,  the 
photograph  of  a  very  modern  lovely  girl. 

Later,  the  owner  arrived,  a  perfectly  simple,  un- 
affected, enthusiastic  boy,  who  knew  all  about  his 

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treasures  and  could  tell  about  them.  He  had  the 
face  of  a  Mantegna  picture,  and  the  stiff  white 
modern  collar  made  him  of  today.  Otherwise  he 
was  quite  in  keeping.  There  certainly  was  no  pose 
about  him,  and  no  suggestion  of  nouveau-riche. 

Every  day  that  I  am  in  this  country  I  am  more 
amazed.  What  has  produced  this  curious  type, 
that  earns  millions  and  prefers  to  spend  on  pre- 
Raphaelites  rather  than  on  race  horses? 

I  lunched  with  Emil  Fuchs,  who  had  a  nice 
party,  among  whom  Frank  Munsey,  a  curious  per- 
sonality. Intellectual  but  so,  so  cold.  I  managed 
once  to  make  him  half  smile.  He  came  after- 
wards to  Knoedler's,  he  looked  at  everything, 
silently,  and  left  hurriedly  without  any  expression 
of  opinion. 

I  dined  with  the  Rosens,  and  Benjy  Guiness  and 
McEvoy  and  Purcell  Jones  were  of  the  party. 
While  they  went  on  to  the  box  that  Laurette  Tay- 
lor had  given  me  for  "Peg  of  My  Heart"  I  went 
to  the  Town  Hall  and  made  a  Pacifist  speech  at  a 
Disarmament  meeting. 

Sunday,  April  3,  1921. 

Dined  with  the  Swopes,  it  being  Mrs.  Swope's 
birthday  party. 

I  had  a  long  talk  with  Barney  Baruch  who  came 
in  afterwards.  I  had  not  seen  him  since  that  be- 
wildering night  when  I  first  arrived,  and  thought 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

he  was  Mr.  Brooke!  I've  never  forgotten  him,  he 
has  a  dominating  personality,  and  a  nose  and  a 
brow  that  I  keep  modelling  in  my  mind  while  I 
am  talking  to  him.  But  he  is  "the  king  with  two 
faces,"  he  can  look  hard  and  Satanic  one  minute, 
kind  and  gentle  the  next.  He  has  a  great  love  of 
Winston,  and  a  loyalty  to  Wilson.  His  ideas  about 
life  and  the  world  in  general  are  fine.  He  has 
the  dynamic  force  of  a  Revolutionary,  but  his 
idealism  is  to  get  the  world  straight  sanely,  calmly 
and  constructively,  not  violently,  bitterly  and 
destructively.  He  believes  in  an  ideal  League  of 
Nations,  and  in  reasoning  rather  than  arming. 
The  answer  to  all  that  is,  that  nothing  gets  done 
at  all  except  by  force,  bitterness  and  violence,  and 
so  Russia  is  the  only  one  among  us  who  has  gotten 
something  done!  Perhaps  if  there  were  rnore 
Barney  Baruchs  in  thd  world  something  might 
evolve,  who  knows.  I  don't  really  know  enough 
about  him  and  his  life,  and  to  what  purpose  he 
puts  his  activities. 

He  talked  to  me  a  good  deal  about  his  father 
and  mother,  especially  his  mother.  He  has  that 
Jewish  love  of  family.  I  always  like  to  hear  a 
man  eulogise  his  mother,  it  makes  me  realize  my 
own  responsibility  towards  Dick.  If  a  man  can 
remember  the  things  his  mother  said  to  him  in 
early  life,  then  my  talking  to  Dick  is  not  as  vain  as 
it  would  seem. 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

Jews  are  wonderful  parents,  and  wonderful 
children.  Moreover  they  are  the  cultured  people 
in  the  world.  They  chiefly  are  our  Art  patrons. 
It  always  amuses  me  in  this  country  when  people 
ask  me  if  Russia  is  entirely  run  by  Jews.  I  didn't 
meet  half  as  many  there  as  I  have  met  here! 

Tuesday,  April  5,  1921. 

Dined  with  Mr.  Otto  Kahn  at  his  house,  a  small 
party,  and  went  on  afterwards  to  Carnegie  Hall 
to  hear  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra  which  was 
heavenly. 

At  dinner  we  discussed  the  psychology  of  men 
and  women  here.  He  has  a  fine  analytical  mind. 
We  talked  of  the  American  woman  being  starved 
emotionally.  He  said  about  the  position  of  women 
in  different  countries,  "Here  they  are  an  orna- 
ment, in  England  they  are  an  object,  in  France  they 
are  a  passion."    It  is  a  good  summing  up. 

We  talked  about  Bolshevism.  He  had  an  amus- 
ing point  of  view,  so  different  from  the  usual 
"foaming-at-the-mouth"  reactionary.  He  said  that 
the  Russians  are  naturally  an  anarchistic  and  re- 
bellious people  incapable  of  self-government.  That 
Bolshevism  was  a  form  of  self-expression  that 
would  pass,  as  everything  would  pass — but  why, 
he  said,  take  it  so  tragically?  It  was  none  of  our 
business !  The  world  had  lost  its  sense  of  humor. 
Our  attitude  towards  the  Russian  experiment 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

should  be  that  of  interested  spectators.  But  the 
idea  of  getting  cross  about  it,  of  exchanging  furi- 
ous notes,  of  sending  soldiers  to  "walk  up  the  hill 
and  down  again."  It  was  ridiculous!  He  talked 
of  Bolshevism  as  a  great  play,  and  the  Bolsheviks 
as  being  living  actors,  fulfilling  their  part 
dramatically,  but  that  play  acted  in  French,  or 
English,  or  Italian,  was  another  thing.  What 
would  succeed  in  Russia  would  fail  in  transla- 
tion. .  . 

Wednesday,  April  6,  1921. 

A  Heaven-sent  day.  As  warm  as  the  best  sum- 
mer day  in  England.  I  went  out  without  a  coat. 
They  tell  me  it  is  a  cold  day  in  comparison  to  what 
we  will  get.  Never  yet  have  I  found  anything 
warm  enough.  Rome  in  June  was  just  satisfying. 
If  I  might  only  go  down  into  Hell  and  sculp  the 
Devil,  how  happy  I  would  be. 

Ever  since  March  21st,  I  have  spent  almost 
every  afternoon  at  Knoedlers,  but  today,  I  jibbed, 
it  was  too  good  a  day  to  stay  in.  Besides,  I  feel  as 
if  I  can't  bear  compliments  and  praise  another 
moment.  It  was  wonderful  at  first,  one  felt  flat- 
tered, pleased,  amused.  The  various  remarks  were 
entertaining,  but  they  are  almost  without  variety, 
and  in  the  end  one  longs  not  to  have  to  smile  the 
smile  of  appreciation  that  will  not  come  off,  there 

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seems  so  little  to  say  in  reply  to  "How  wonder- 
ful !  How  clever  you  are,  how  living  they  are,  how 

brave  you  were,  what  brutes  they  look "I 

just  stand  first  on  one  leg  and  then  on  the  other 
and  look  silly  and  feel  worse.  If  anyone  bought 
anything,  or  wanted  to  be  done,  it  would  be  differ- 
ent, but  I  feel  that  Knoedlers  have  generously  taken 
a  great  deal  of  trouble  and  been  awfully  kind,  and 
gained  nothing.  People  treat  my  exhibition  as  a 
sort  of  free  "Madame  Tussaud's,"  and  there  the 
thing  ends. 

I'm  told  it  has  been  a  great  success.  If  success 
is  measured  by  the  quantities  of  people  who  visit  it, 
then  "Yes" — the  critics  have  certainly  been  splen- 
did to  me.  For  the  rest,  if  I  have  any  complaint  to 
make,  it  is  due,  I  suppose,  to  the  "slump"  that  I 
am  told  prevails.  A  slump  is  prosperity  compared 
to  Europe,  and  I  have  not  been  here  in  normal 
times,  so  can  make  no  comparison. 

I  feel  rather  with  the  policeman  in  the  Avenue, 
Dick's  friend,  who  said  to  Louise,  "Look  at  them! 
Look  at  them!"  pointing  at  the  motors,  "all  day 
long  they  pass  back  and  forth.  Gee!  How  rich 
people  must  be,  no  wonder  the  world  comes  and 
asks  us  for  relief  funds — !" 

I  dined  with  Kenneth  Durant  and  Ernestine 
Evans,  Crystal  Eastman  and  a  young  Art  critic 
from  Boston.  We  went  afterwards  to  see  "Em- 
peror Jones."    This  is  practically  a  one  man  play, 

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and  its  success  is  due  to  the  genius  of  Gilpin,  the 
colored  actor.     It  is  a  grim  and  powerful  repre- 
sentation, that  the  "grand  Guignol"  might  well 
produce.     The  only  thing  is  that  it  deals  so  en- 
tirely with  the  psychology  of  the  colored  race  that 
no  European  would  quite  understand  it.    I  would 
have  lost  a  lot  of  it  if  Kenneth  hadn't  explained 
here  and  there.     I  see  the  negro  in  a  new  light. 
He  used  to  be  rather  repulsive  to  me,  but  obviously 
he  is  human,  has  been  very  badly  treated,  and  suf- 
fers probably  a  good  deal  from  the  terrific  race 
prejudice  that  prevails  here.    It  must  be  humiliat- 
ing to  an  educated  colored  man,  that  he  may  not 
walk  down  the  street  with  a  white  woman,  nor 
dine  in  a  restaurant  with  her.    I  wonder  about  the 
psychology   of   the   colored   man,   like   the   poet, 
Mackaye,  who  came  to  see  me  a  few  days  ago  and 
who  is  as  delightful  to  talk  to  as  any  man  one  could 
meet.    In  this  play  the  civilized  negro  adventurer, 
who  has  established  himself  Emperor  of  an  island, 
has  to  fly  to  the  woods  in  the  face  of  a  rebellion.  He 
grows  weak  from  hunger,  and  finally,  overcome  by 
superstitious  fears,   goes   slowly  mad,    and  scene 
after  scene  in  which  he  is  practically  alone  on  the 
stage,  shows  the  man  going  back  further  and  fur- 
ther towards  his  origin.     It  is  terribly  interesting, 
and  at  the  end  I  felt  the  colored  actor  had  scored  a 
triumph,  and  that  the  white  audience  could  not  be 
feeling  very  proud. 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

Friday,  April  8,  1921. 

Mr.  Villard  asked  me  to  lunch  down  town  with 
the  staff  of  The  Nation.  We  were  nine  people 
and  conversation  was  general.  I  heard  a  good  deal 
of  American  politics  which  it  interests  me  to 
absorb  and  not  have  to  take  part  in.  They  also  dis- 
cussed the  English  Labor  Party,  and  the  strike 
that  is  going  on  at  this  moment.  England  is 
threatened  with  a  "Triple  Alliance"  strike, 
(miners,  railwaymen  and  transport  workers).  It 
has  never  happened  yet  though  it  has  been  at- 
tempted. We  all  agreed  in  believing  it  will  not 
be  accomplished  this  time  either.  Some  day,  per- 
haps— yes,  and  then  look  out!  But  the  time  has 
not  come.  Meanwhile,  as  Mr.  Villard  prophesied, 
if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  Lloyd  George  will 
call  a  general  election  and  will  be  re-elected  with 
flying  colors. 

I  heard  a  certain  amount  about  the  treatment  by 
the  United  States  of  the  native  Indians  on  the  set- 
tlements. Apparently  there  is  not  a  country  any- 
where that  has  not  its  skeletons  in  its  cupboards. 

In  the  afternoon  I  went  for  the  last  time  to 
Knoedlers.  The  exhibition  closes  tomorrow.  Mr. 
Purcell  Jones,  who  has  an  exhibition  of  decorative 
water-colors  upstairs,  was  very  amusing,  relating 
to  me  some  of  the  remarks  of  people  who  came  in 
yesterday  when  I  was  away. 

Apparently  two  or  three  women  came  on  after  a 

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lecture  about  Russia.  One  of  them,  looking  at 
Lenin,  announced  in  a  loud  voice,  "It's  not  the  mur- 
dering that  I  resent,  but  it's  the  destruction  of  the 
finest  collection  of  butterflies  in  the  world."  An- 
other, looking  at  the  bust  of  Krassin  (whose  pure 
Siberian  features,  so  full,  as  I  think,  of  dignity 
and  character)  said  that  he  reminded  her  of  a 
Chinese  Jew —  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  heard 
of  there  being  any  in  existence — as  one  lives  one 
learns. 

Concerning  the  marble  baby  on  a  very  low 
pedestal  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  he  said,  "All 
the  women  who  come  here  just  stand  over  it  and 
shower  it  with  hairpins."  I  laughed,  and  to  prove 
his  assertion  he  went  and  looked  on  the  carpet  at 
the  base  of  the  pedestal.  Sure,  he  picked  up  sev- 
eral straight  away! 

* 
Thursday,  April  14,  1921. 

Lunched  with  Emil  Fuchs,  and  walked  home  by 
Fifth  Avenue.  In  front  of  the  Public  Library  a 
meeting  was  going  on.  A  woman  was  speaking, 
and  it  seemed  to  be  an  appeal  for  funds  for  "suf- 
fering Ireland."  I  mingled  with  the  crowd  in 
hopes  of  hearing  something  startling.  But  I  only 
heard  a  jumbled  mix-up  about  Women's  Suffrage, 
and  then  Belgium,  and  about  me  Queen  of  Bel- 
gium being  a  full-blooded  German,  "but  that 
didn't  stop  you  going  to  help  Belgium,"  the  speaker 

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said.  I  couldn't  wait  long  enough  to  see  the  con- 
nection with  Ireland.  As  I  walked  away  I  re- 
volved in  my  mind  the  letter  I  had  from  papa  this 
morning  in  which  he  told  me  that  Stenning,  our 
Scotch  game-keeper,  who  had  lived  on  our  Irish 
estate  ever  since  I  was  a  small  child,  has  just  been 
murdered  in  his  house. 

My  thoughts  were  suddenly  broken  into  by  the 
unusual  action  of  a  man  who  skipped  backwards 
in  front  of  me,  and  before  I  realized  it  a  huge 
kodak  was  aimed  at  me.  A  few  paces  further  on  a 
man  of  rather  humble  appearance  addressed  me  as 
"Miss  Sheridan."  He  took  his  hat  off  and  held  it 
in  his  hand  while  he  told  me  that  he  had  heard  me 
lecture,  and  had  read  everything  I  had  written.  "I 
am  a  Russian"  he  said — "and  I  felt  that  you  had 
the  good  of  Russia  at  heart  ...  I  just  wanted  to 
thank  you."  I  thanked  him,  shook  hands,  and 
walked  on.    Queer  place,  Fifth  Avenue! 

Saturday,  April  16,  1921. 

Colonel  William  Boyce  Thompson  sent  his  car 
for  me  at  twelve,  and  I  drove  out  to  his  place  in 
Yonkers  on  the  Hudson.  There  I  found  a  Russian 
gathering!  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Raymond  Robbins, 
Colonel  Thatcher  and  the  Wardwells.  The  house 
is  beautiful,  full  of  pictures.  I  wonder  if  Bot- 
ticelli could  have  had  any  premonition  that  he 
was   painting   to   decorate   the   stately  homes   of 

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America.  I  keep  wondering  why  there  are  enough 
Botticelli's  to  go  round. 

We  lunched  in  a  room  that  had  six  French  win- 
dows facing  the  garden  that  slopes  down  to  the 
Hudson  River.  At  least,  so  I  discovered  after- 
wards, but  the  windows  were  thickly  and  tightly 
and  most  carefully  curtained  so  that  one  could  not 
at  all  see  out.  All  during  lunch  I  longed  to  pierce 
the  veil.  Immediately  afterwards  we  went  out 
into  the  sun  on  the  terrace,  and  I  begged  that  we 
might  sit  out,  and  not  in.  Conversation  on  Russia 
was  very  stimulating,  but  as  I  was  none  too  sure 
of  my  host's  exact  sentiments,  I  talked  rather 
guardedly.  He  may  be  labelled  "the  Bolshevik 
millionaire,"  but  it  does  not  mean  that  he  is  Bol- 
shevik. Almost  any  unprejudiced  person  is  labelled 
Bolshevik  in  this  country!  Colonel  Thompson  told 
us  that  when  he  got  back  from  Russia,  tie  paoers 
published  his  photograph  between  Lenin's  and 
Trotzky's !  When  Thatcher  got  back,  Col:  Thomp- 
son told  him  there  was  might  little  difference  be- 
tween hero  and  zero,  as  it  is  understood  here;  and 
having  experienced  certain  things,  they  went  to 
meet  Raymond  Robbins  on  his  arrival  to  prepare 
him. 

Never  had  I  heard  three  more  hearty  laughters, 
than  these  three  men  reminiscing  over  their  recep- 
tion in  this  country  on  their  return  from  Russia, 
I  said  to  them,  "It's  all  very  well  to  laugh,  but 

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knowing  what  you  do,  mightn't  you  go  to  the 
rescue  of  the  floundering  stranger,  landing  in  equal 
plight  on  your  shores?"  They  laughed  the  more, 
"We  like  to  see  it  ...  we  like  to  watch,  and  then 
gather  the  sufferer  to  our  fold!" 

Later  they  talked  about  Wilson,  to  which  I  list- 
ened in  silence  with  awe.  It  interested  me  to  hear 
that  Wilson  is  the  author  of  a  work  entitled  "The 
New  Freedom"  which  was  discovered  at  the  head- 
quarters of  the  I.  W.  W.  and  declared  to  be  sedi- 
tious literature!  Lansing's  book  did  not  pass  un- 
mentioned — there  seems  to  be  but  one  opinion 
about  it.  Someone  in  Washington  described  it  as 
the  "vituperations  of  an  enraged  white  mouse." 
Raymond  Robbins  gave  an  imitation  of  Lansing 
leaning  forward  in  his  chair,  wiping  his  glasses, 
and  with :sly  glances  at  the  clock,  whilst  he,  Rob- 
bins  described  in  fifteen  minutes  what  happened 
in  Russia,  in  one  year.  Col.  Thatcher  boasted  that 
he  had  been  given  an  audience  of  twenty-five  min- 
utes!   But  in  either  case  the  result  was  the  same! 

Raymond  Robbins  is  a  very  ill  man.  He  looked 
desperately  tired,  and  he  was,  as  I  understood, 
going  off  to  a  rest  cure  somewhere.  I  like  him  and 
I  liked  very  much  Mrs.  Robbins,  she  has  a  keen, 
searching,  restless  face,  almost  hawk's  eyes.  She  is 
head  of  a  Women's  Labor  Organization.  She  was 
awfully  nice  to  me  (everybody  was),  about  my 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

book,  and  about  my  adventure.  It  is  overwhelm- 
ing, and  I  feel  undeserved.  The  book  is  so  humble 
and  unpretentious,  the  adventure  so  obviously 
worth  doing. 

I  got  home  at  six  o'clock  and  an  hour  later  dined 
with  a  compatriot,  Frank  McDermott,  and  having 
nothing  planned  we  drove  to  Broadway.  This  is  a 
marvelous  place  at  night.  The  whole  locality  is 
illuminated  with  electric  advertisements.  They 
baffle  description.  The  American  advertiser,  not 
content  with  lighting  up  his  advertisement,  must 
needs  have  movement  in  those  lights.  All  of  them 
dance,  twinkle,  rain,  run,  sparkle,  circulate.  It  is 
metaphorically  a  shrieking  competition.  There  are 
even  a  pair  of  dogs  pulling  a  sleigh,  the  man  in  the 
sleigh  flicks  his  electric  whip  in  the  air,  and  the 
dogs  just  gallop !  Far  fewer  lights  on  a  Corona- 
tion or  a  Peace  night  in,  London,  bring  tforth 
crowds  into  the  streets,  walking  arm  in  arm  "to  see 
the  illuminations."  In  Broadway  it  seems  to  be  a 
perpetual  Coronation  Night! 

We  went  into  the  "Capitol"  film  palace.  The 
first  time  I  had  been  to  one.  It  is  gigantic,  and 
the  house  was  packed.  An  opera  sized  orchestra 
started  off  by  playing  Wagner  to  us.  The  house 
listened  intently.  The  American  public  is  very 
musical,  even  if  it  has  gone  expecting  to  see  a  film, 
it  wilLlisten  to  Wagner  without  whispering.    I  be- 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

lieve  the  American  people  are  as  appreciative  of 
music  as  the  Russian  people. 

After  that,  the  orchestra  accompanied  a  choir 
that  sang  southern  songs.  There  is  great  character 
and  a  good  deal  of  romance  in  these  songs,  one 
never  fails  to  be  stirred.  When  "Dixie"  was  sung 
a  large  proportion  of  the  audience  burst  forth  into 
spontaneous  applause.  I  have  never  heard  "Dixie" 
played  in  this  country  without  its  arousing  ap- 
plause. Finally  we  sat  through  a  rather  dull  film 
play — they  can  be  dull  sometimes! 

Thursday,  April  21,  1921.    Washington,  D.  C. 

I  arrived  in  Washington  at  six  this  morning.  I 
don't  know  what  I've  come  for,  I  didn't  really 
plan  it.  Soukine*  it  was  who  suggested  my  com- 
ing, and  clinched  it  by  writing  to  Countess  Gizycka 
to  tell  her  so.  This  elicited  a  telegram  from 
Countess  Gizycka  asking  me  to  dine  on  Friday. 
Furthermore  my  letter  to  Sir  Auckland  Geddes 
produced  a  telegram  asking  me  to  lunch  at  the 
British  Embassy  on  Thursday.  Therefore,  I  came 
when  I  did.  I  have  lunched  and  I  have  tea'd  at  the 
Embassy,  I  have  walked  round  the  town  instead  of 
dining.  It  is  very  warm  and  very  lovely.  The 
trees  are  in  full  leaf,  there  is  a  wind  but  it  is  a 
warm  wind — Washington  is  a  pleasant  contrast  to 


*Who  was  Minister  for  foreign  affairs   under  Kolchak. 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

New  York,  it  is  large  and  airy  and  leisurely  and 
dignified.  It  looks  like  a  new  town  that  is  incom- 
plete. As  one  drives  outside,  one  does  not  get  into 
slums  and  suburbs  as  with  any  other  town,  but  sud- 
denly one  is  in  green  pastures,  it  is  like  the  bound- 
aries of  a  village. 
I  feel  very  lonely,  Dick  is  in  New  Jersey. 

Friday,  April  22,  1921. 

Paul  Hanna,  a  friend  of  Kenneth  Durant's, 
asked  me  to  lunch,  he  and  Mrs.  Hanna  (everyone 
is  married  in  America — however  young)  came  to 
fetch  me.  We  went  to  a  restaurant  near  by  where 
we  found  our  party,  among  whom,  with  his  wife, 
was  Sinclair  Lewis,  the  author  of  the  much-dis- 
cussed "Main  Street."  The  restaurant  we  lunched 
in  was  rather  cleverly  decorated,  so  that  one  had 
the  impression  of  having  a  tent  awning  overhead, 
and  being  surrounded  by  Italian  stone  walls  with 
vases,  and  a  peacock  was  silhouetted  against  a  sap- 
phire blue  sky.  The  proportions  of  the  room,  and 
the  height  of  the  roof  lent  themselves  to  this  treat- 
ment. I  was  informed  that  it  had  been  recently  con- 
verted from  a  Baptist  Chapel!  How  strange  we 
Christians  are!  No  oriental  would  thus  desecrate 
his  temple.  The  party  amused  themselves  at  my  ex- 
pense, telling  American  humor  stories,  which  I 
couldn't  laugh  at.  I  said  I  didn't  think  the  Ameri- 
can paper  Life  was  funny,  they  admitted  they 

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didn't  think  so  either,  but  that  twenty  out  of  a  hun- 
dred jokes  in  Punch  compensated  for  the  other 
eighty.  It  was  a  funny  party — I  knew  what  train 
of  thought  Paul  Hanna  represented,  but  I  wonder 
if  the  others  did. 

After  lunch  most  of  us  went  off  to  the  bookshop 
and  I  exchanged  "Mayfair  to  Moscow"  for  "Main 
Street,"  duly  autographed. 

I  went  to  tea  with  Mrs.  William  Hard  where  a 
great  many  people  drifted  in  and  out.  Among 
them  Alice  Longworth,  with  whom  I  made  a  date, 
and  Mrs.  Brandeis  and  her  daughter,  who  invited 
me  to  go  to  tea  on  the  morrow  to  meet  Mr.  Justice 
Brandeis.  I  have  a  great  curiosity  to  see  him,  I 
have  heard  his  name  over  and  over  again.  Every- 
one says  to  me,  "You  should  do  a  head  of  Bran- 
deis." I  am  told  he  looks  like  Lincoln.  Innum- 
erable people  tell  me  also  that  I  should  do  a  head 
of  Mr.  Baruch.  "The  replete  ea^le  with  a  kindly 
eye"  as  someone  here  described  him  to  me.  If  he 
were  only  poor,  and  nobody,  he  would  probably 
consent  to  sit  to  me,  and  be  quite  happy  doing  so. 
This  lack  of  vanity  in  man  is  new  to  me.  I  have 
never  met  it  before,  I  do  not  understand  it.  There 
are  types  in  this  country  not  only  fine  physically, 
and  interesting,  but  there  is  the  brain,  the  force 
and  the  power  of  achievement  behind  it. 

Soukine  fetched  me  for  dinner  at  Countess 
Gizycka's.  Senator  Edge  took  me  in  to  dinner — 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

I  was  sent  in  first  as  the  guest  of  honor.  On  my 
other  side  was  Mr.  Lowry,  whom  I  had  met  at  tea 
at  Mrs.  Hard's.  We  stumbled  in  the  course  of 
conversation  on  a  mutual  friendship  with  Henry 
James.  It  happened  by  chance,  but  it  was  a  happy 
chance.  He  loved  Henry  as  all  Henry's  friends 
did.  He  nursed  him  through  his  last  illness.  Mr. 
Lowry  had  not  guessed  that  I  was  the  Sheridan  to 
whom  the  best  of  Henry  James'  letters  are  written 
in  the  last  volume.  That  tag  of  Soviet  Russia 
which  is  tied  tightly  round  my  neck  had  obliterated 
any  idea  of  my  being  anyone  else!  We  talked  of 
Rye,  and  of  my  own  home,  and  the  mention  of 
Brede  Place  recalled  to  my  vision  spring  in  Eng- 
land, the  peace  and  the  remoteness  of  Sussex;  "so 
far  away,"  as  Mr.  Lowry  said.  So  far  away,  in- 
deed, that  it  seems  like  another  world,  and  some- 
times I  wonder  if  I'll  ever  get  back  there. 

I  met  "Mr.  Baker  of  the  Mint"  as  he  was  de- 
scribed to  me  when  I  asked  who  he  was.  A  man 
with  a  very  fine,  characteristically  American  face, 
and  a  charming  personality.  Later,  when  every- 
one else  went  on  to  a  ball,  Mr.  Baker  took  me  for 
a  drive  in  his  car  before  dropping  me  at  the  Shore- 
ham.  I  asked  him  what  Mr.  Baker  he  was, 
whether  he  was  the  Mr.  Baker  of  the  Wilson  Ad- 
ministration. He  obviously  was  laughing  at  my 
ignorance  and  explained  that  he  was  just  plain 
Mr.  Baker,  although  he  had  been  in  the  Wilson 

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Administration,  but  that  he  had  always  been  sim- 
ply Mr.  Baker,  and  still  was  the  same,  and  not  a 
very  important  person — not  important  enough,  for 
instance,  to  have  his  head  done!  By  which,  I  sup- 
pose, he  means  that  he  is  not  Secretary  for  War 
Baker — ?  Whoever  he  is,  (and  I  suppose  I  shall 
learn  in  time  about  people  in  Washington,  just  as 
I  have  in  time  learnt  about  people  in  New  York!) 
I  like  him,  I  like  his  face,  and  I  like  his  talk,  al- 
though he  is  "the  man  of  the  mint"  who  refuses  to 
buy  Soviet  gold.  I  asked  him  why,  "Is  it  because 
you  are  a  very  high  principled  man  and  you  feel 
the  gold  belongs  to  someone  else?" 

"I  am  a  high  principled  man  but  it  is  not  for 
any  principle  that  I  will  not  buy  Soviet  gold — ." 

"So  much  the  better,"  I  said,  "there  will  be  more 
for  England  and  we  want  it — and  it  will  come  to 
you  just  the  same  I  suppose  in  the  end,  only  it  will 
come  through  us — !" 

At  that  moment  we  passed  by  what  seemed  in  the 
night  to  be  columns  of  a  Greek  temple  standing  out 
against  the  night  blue.  It  was  the  Lincoln  Me- 
morial. We  drove  along  the  river  which  looked 
mysterious  and  beautiful  with  its  bridges  and  re- 
flected lights.  As  we  flashed  by  the  lights  of  the 
lamps  I  saw  azaleas  of  every  color,  banks  of  them. 
The  night  was  as  warm  as  any  in  an  English  sum- 
mer. 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

— r 

Saturday,  April  23,  1921. 

Lunched  with  Sinclair  Lewis  at  the  Shoreham. 
He  is  full  of  imagination.  One  of  the  few  Ameri- 
cans I  have  met  who  is  not  submerged  by  domestic- 
ity, although  he  is  married. 

He  tells  me  he  wrote  four  or  five  novels  before 
he  wrote  "Main  Street,"  but  they  were  not  suc- 
cesses. I  asked  him  why  that  had  not  discouraged 
him.  He  laughed,  he  said  it  was  no  use  being  dis- 
couraged, that  writing  novels  was  all  he  could  do, 
he  might  starve  at  it,  but  he  was  incapable  of  any 
other  form  of  work.  (Truly  an  artist!)  He  had 
expected  some  people  would  like  "Main  Street," 
but  he  had  not  expected  it  to  sell.  It  was  a  great 
joke  being  famous,  though  sometimes  a  great  bore. 
He  was  extremely  funny  about  it. 

I  went  to  tea  with  Mrs.  McCormick,  then  on  to 
see  Mr.  Justice  Brandeis,  who  expected  me  at  his 
chambers.  He  was  very  nice,  though  rather  shy. 
He  certainly  is  extremely  like  Lincoln,  but  a  Lin- 
coln who  has  not  suffered.  Certainly  a  fine  head 
to  do.  I  am  told  he  is  one  of  the  big  brains  of  the 
United  States.  He  is  a  friend  of  F.  E.  's*  and  of 
Lord  Reading.  He  said  things  about  England  and 
the  English  that  made  me  proud — we  talked  for 
quite  a  while,  but  one  does  not  talk  at  ease  when 


*F.   E.   Smith,  now  Lord   Birkenhead,   Lord   Chancellor   of 
England. 

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both  are  strangers  confronting  each  other  for  the 
purpose  of  conversation.  The  best  thoughts  and 
talks  I  elicit  from  people  when  I  am  working  on 
them,  and  when  it  is  only  necessary  to  speak  if 
the  idea  comes,  and  where  a  gap  of  silence  is  pos- 
sible and  restful  rather  than  embarrassing.  Under 
these  conditions  I  get  people  to  give  of  their  best. 

I  dined  with  X and  we  talked  about  the 

future.  But  I  am  like  a  nun  who,  when  tempted  to 
run  away  from  her  vocation,  reflected  that  her 
lover  would  no  longer  love  the  nun  with  short  hair 
and  no  veil.  My  work  is  my  veil — I  must  work 
and  keep  working,  though  it  entail  a  sacrifice.  I 
remember  years  ago  a  man,  (and  he  was  an  Ameri- 
can) said  to  me,  "Choose  your  path;  either  the 
path  of  companionship  and  love,  or  the  path  of  a 
career  with  all  it  entails  of  purpose  and  of  loneli- 
ness."   And  he  is  right — . 

Sunday,  April  24,  1921. 

Motored  with  Admiral  and  Mrs.  Grayson  to 
some  place  outside  Washington  to  see  Barney 
Baruch's  race  horses.  The  stable  is  by  the  side  of 
the  race  course,  but  the  District  of  Columbia  has 
legislated  against  racing,  so  now  the  track  is  used 
for  a  training  ground.  Queer  form  of  govern- 
ment this!  How  strange  it  would  be  if  the  Coun- 
ty of  Surrey  suddenly  decided  by  a  local  County 
Council  to  suppress  racing,  there  would  be  no  more 
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Ascot,  or  if  Liverpool  suddenly  decided  to  have  no 
more  Grand  National.  I  wonder  if  the  English 
would  stand  it  or  rebel.  Americans  seem  to  me  to 
be  a  strangely  well-disciplined  community;  there 
will  never  be  a  revolution  in  this  country! 

I  lunched  with  Senator  Henry  Cabot  Lodge  and 
his  daughter-in-law,  Mrs.  Lodge,  and  a  beautiful 
girl,  his  granddaughter.  Although  I  hardly  knew 
the  Senator  I  feel  as  if  he  were  a  relation.  He  was, 
until  recently,  a  trustee  for  the  children  under  my 
mother-in-law's*  will.  We  talked  at  great  length 
about  Mother  Mary,  whom  I  loved  as  he  also 
loved  her.  We  discussed  her  sorrows,  her  cour- 
age, her  sense  of  duty.  Almost  she  played  the  role 
in  life  of  a  great  tragedienne,  but  with  no  appeal  to 
the  gallery.  Very  silent,  and  very  lovely  and  very 
reserved  she  was,  and  her  face  was  the  face  of  Our 
Mother  of  Sorrows. 

Few  people  know  about  my  "Mother  Mary." 
But  Senator  Lodge  knew  and  it  was  like  bringing 
her  dear  ghost-face  back  again  to  life.  After  lunch 
Colonel  Harvey  fetched  the  Senator  for  a  drive, 
the  future  ambassador  to  Britain  is  not  an  im- 
posing individuality.  He  has  the  American  sense 
of  humor  which  is  seldom  lacking,  and  much 
there  may  be  inside  him  that  is  not  evident  on  the 


^Daughter  of  John  Lothrop  Motley,  author  of  "The  Rise  of 
the  Dutch  Republic,"  etc. 

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surface.  I  felt  no  impression  of  him  at  all.  It 
seemed  to  me  a  pity  that  the  United  States  should 
not  be  represented  by  one  of  the  types  of  America, 
with  a  square  jaw,  and  clear  bright  eyes,  and  force- 
ful personality,  such  as  I  meet  over  and  over  again. 
They  dropped  me  at  the  Shoreham  and  from 
there  I  proceeded  out  into  the  country  in  an  open 
car  with  ....  Such  a  lovely  afternoon,  hot  enough 
to  motor  without  a  coat.  We  drove  for  miles  but 
it  seemed  impossible  to  get  away  from  other  cars 
and  other  people  however  far  we  went.  Finally 
we  stopped  in  front  of  a  lane,  left  the  car  and  went 
rambling  through  someone's  private  woods.  There 
were  three  kinds  of  wild  flowers  I  had  never  seen 
before,  and  whole  bushes  of  wild  azalea  in  bloom. 
We  gathered  armfuls.  It  seems  too  wonderful 
when  I  think  of  our  tender  care  in  growing  azaleas 
at  home,  that  they  should  grow  wild  here.  And 
there  was  a  big  yellow  "swallowtailed"  butterfly.  I 
have  seen  it  in  Italy.  In  England  it  does  not  exist. 
I  remember  as  a  child  buying  one  for  my  butterfly 
collection,  it  cost  half  a  crown.  (I  wonder  if  the 
price  has  gone  up  since.)  We  passed  by  a  pond, 
and  the  sound  of  frogs  was  like  the  sound  of  birds, 
and  quite  as  loud.  In  England  frogs  never  say  a 
word.  I  suppose  these  are  a  different  kind  of  frog, 
or  else  we  haven't  enough  heat  to  rouse  a  protest 
from  them.  It  was  a  very  heavenly  afternoon,  out 
into  the  stillness  of  the  country,  in  the  sun,  in  the 
spring. 
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I  dined  at  the  Medill  McCormick's.  A  big 
party  at  small  tables  in  several  rooms.  I  sat  next  to 
Mr.  Richard  Washburn  Child  on  one  side.  He  is 
talked  of  as  a  possible  United  States  Ambassador 
to  Japan.*  He  looks  very  young.  He  asked  me 
why  I  was  "here,"  which  I  took  to  mean  America, 
not  Washington,  and  I  found  myself  telling  him 
everything  that  I  haven't  told  even  some  of  my  best 
friends.  He  seemed  to  understand  my  feeling  about 
the  adventure  of  life.  Some  people  never  awaken, 
others  start  with  their  eyes  wide  open.  I  began  late, 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  only  waked  up  when  I  got  to 
Russia.  Perhaps  I  was  slowly  stirring  ever  since 
I  began  to  work  five  years  ago.  But  those  years 
were  too  laden  with  overwork  and  anxiety  as  to 
the  future,  and  the  effort  of  attaining.  I  was  con- 
scious then  of  belonging  to  a  world,  but  not  to  the 
world.  But  now  I  know  the  world  is  all  mine  for 
the  discovering.  I  belong  to  every  bit  of  it,  and 
it  all  belongs  to  me.  What  care  I  where  I  live,  so 
long  as  I  find  work,  and  sunshine,  and  from  out  the 
crowd  one  hand  extended  towards  me  in  friend- 
ship? 

When  I  got  to  Russia,  I  realized  a  great  big  new 
country  that  was  thinking  and  working  in  a  way 
I  had  never  dreamt  of.    It  was  a  tremendous  awak- 


♦Since  writing  he  has   been   appointed  U.  S.  Ambassador  to 
Rome 

IIT 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

ening.  And  now,  what  hazard  has  led  me  back  to 
my  mother's  country?  I  find  it  is  another  great  big 
new  world,  working  and  thinking  in  just  as  new 
and  different  a  way,  and  as  differently  as  Russia. 
But  the  size  of  these  countries  is  what  appeals  to 
me.  In  Russia  I  could  have  (but  I  didn't)  taken  a 
train  for  days,  and  travelled  to  other  parts  and  been 
still  in  Russia.  Here  I  have  not,  but  I  will — go 
west,  go  south,  go  north.  For  days  and  days  I  shall 
be  able  to  go.  From  a  commercial  provincial  town 
out  into  the  land  of  endless  flowers  where  there  are 
no  seasons,  and  the  land  gives  out  two  crops  a  year. 
I  have  a  great  desire  to  see  more,  and  more,  and 
yet  more.  To  see  it  all,  in  fact.  But  I  am  tired 
(already)  of  civilization,  of  the  luxury  of  baths 
and  telephones,  and  the  overabundance  of  food. 
I  am  tired  of  people,  even  of  people  who  are  kind, 
and  people  who  are  brilliant.  I  want  to  take  Dick 
and  get  away  somewhere  into  the  wilds.  When- 
ever I  ask  if  there  is  some  village  in  the  hills; 
with  an  Inn,  as  for  instance,  in  Cornwall,  or  in 
Italy,  I  am  recommended  a  primitive  wood,  where 
there  is  "a  colony."  I  want  to  get  away  from  the 
colony!  Can't  I  live  for  a  while,  as  at  Lerici,  see- 
ing only  peasant  people?  Even  outside  Rome, 
within  half  an  hour  by  rail,  I  found  myself  in  Ar- 
cadian groves,  where  it  seemed  that  only  Pan  had 
lived.  I  am  told  that  here  it  is  impossible,  how- 
ever remotely  one  travel  to  get  away  from  the  tele- 
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graph,  telephone  and  motor  cars.  From  England  I 
had  visualized  this  country,  as  consisting  of  New 
York,  Washington  and  Chicago  and  Boston,  and 
for  the  rest,  that  one  mounted  a  horse,  and  rode 
out  over  prairies  towards  mountains.  And  I  mean 
to  find  it  is  so.  The  land  of  the  Red  Indian  must 
still  contain  some  primitive  unreclaimed  spots. 
Anyway,  there  it  all  is,  and  mine  if  I  choose  to  go 
and  look  for  it.  The  world  is  a  great  wonder- 
place  with  wonder-people  in  it.  I  am  drunk  with 
love  of  it,  love  of  the  beauty  and  the  capricious- 
ness,  and  the  unexpectedness  of  it.  I  want  to  see 
it  all — Mexico,  China,  Egypt,  Greece  and  back 
again  to  Russia,  working  all  the  way,  hunting 
heads,  and  reading  people  and  never  arriving  at 
any  understanding,  but  loving  it  always  as  one 
loves  the  person  who  is  big,  generous,  elusive,  full 
of  moods,  and  never  to  be  understood. 

Sometimes,  though,  I  wish  I  could  learn  some- 
thing from  it  all.  I  wish  I  could  understand  some 
of  the  problems,  and  have  a  few  convictions.  As 
I  sit  here  and  ruminate  in  front  of  my  open  win- 
dow I  think  of  many  things,  in  a  kaleidescopic 
way.  It  is  the  first  time  I  have  had  leisure  to  think 
since  I  landed  in  America.  I  have  heard  so  many 
varied  opinions  over  here,  and  I  just  begin  to  wish 
I  knew  for  example:  whether  the  Soviet  form  of 
government  is  right,  or  even  partly  right,  or  on 
the  right  trail,  and  whether  the  majority  of  the 

"3 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

world  which  condemns  it,  is  wrong,  or  frightened, 
or  sensible. 

I  wish  I  knew  if  human  nature  on  the  whole  is 
very  grand  and  fine,  or  whether  it  is  chiefly  murky 
and  ugly  and  very  selfish. 

I  wish  I  knew  if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  love, 
apart  from  maternal  love,  or  whether  it  is  all  only 
passion. 

I  wish  I  could  make  up  my  mind  as  to  whether 
civilization  is  a  very  valuable  evolution,  or  a  very 
great  curse. 

I  wish  I  could  decide  whether  I  want  to  live  in 
America,  France  or  Russia,  and  whether  I  should 
like  my  immediate  headquarters  to  be  in  New 
York  or  Washington. 

I  wish  I  knew  how  much  the  people  who  are 
nice  to  me  really  like  me,  or  how  much  I  am  a 
curiosity. 

I  wish  I  knew  whether  I  am  happier  than  any- 
one else  or  happy  at  all. 

Tuesday,  April  26,  1921. 

Alice  Longworth  fetched  me  a  little  after 
twelve  (a  piping  hot  day).  We  drove  to  the  Sen- 
ate. For  about  half  an  hour  before  lunch  we  sat 
in  the  gallery  of  the  Senate  Chamber.  By  strange 
chance  a  Senator  called  LaFollette  was  holding 
forth  upon  Ireland,  and  demanding  that  the  gov- 
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ernment  of  the  U.  S.  recognize  the  Irish  Republic. 
It  was  strange  to  come  to  the  Senate  to  hear  home 
politics.  I  listened  to  censorious  remarks  on  Great 
Britain  and  I  felt  that  everyone  was  agreeing,  both 
on  the  floor  of  the  Senate  as  well  as  in  the  gal- 
leries. Senator  LaFollette,  with  his  gray  hair 
standing  on  end,  and  his  face  pink  with  passion, 
left  his  desk,  strode  up  and  down,  around  and 
about,  the  while  he  shook  a  formidable  finger  at 
the  empty  seats  around  him.  They  were  not  en- 
tirely empty,  however,  for  Senator  Reed  was  lis- 
tening with  attention  and  approval.  I  had  met 
Senator  Reed  at  Mrs.  McCormick's  party  on  Sun- 
day night,  and  the  subject  of  Ireland  had  arisen 
between  us  then.  He  told  me  he  was  contemplat- 
ing a  journey  to  Detroit  to  speak  at  a  meeting  for 
"Funds  for  Ireland."  I  said  to  him  that  night: 
"If  you  are  going  to  ask  for  funds  for  Ireland 
you  must  needs  abuse  Great  Britain."  He  an- 
swered that  the  one  did  not  absolutely  necessitate 
the  other.  But  I  surmised  he  only  said  it  out  of 
politeness  to  an  Englishwoman.  I  feel  I  have  met 
the  anti-British  wave  at  last.  It  is  here — and  it  is 
in  the  Senate!  But  what  can  one  say  in  self-de- 
fense about  Ireland?  Senator  LaFollette  reiter- 
ated all  the  arguments  that  were  asserted  in  Mos- 
cow, and  to  which  I  could  not  answer  a  word. 
Such  as  the  war  having  been  fought  to  protect  the 
small  nations,  self-determination  by  the  people, 

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freedom  of  Poland,  of  Jugo-Slavia,  of  Czecho- 
slovakia, of  God  knows  what  else. 

In  my  own  heart  I  think  the  small  nationalities 
are  the  causes  of  war,  but  having  insisted  and  pro- 
claimed their  rights  we  certainly  must  be  consist- 
ent. The  only  objection  I  have  heard  yet  to  the 
Irish  Republic  is  the  notion  that  she  would  be  a 
base  for  an  enemy  fleet  in  the  next  war.  To  which 
the  reply  is  obvious.  She  is  further  away  from 
us  than  France.  Besides,  she  was  a  base  for  the 
enemy  fleet  in  the  last  war.  Our  problems  would 
on  the  whole  have  been  lessened  if  Ireland  as  an 
independent  nation  had  openly  sided  with  the  en- 
emy. We  could  have  declared  war  on  her,  instead 
of  being  hand  tied  in  the  face  of  her  enmity,  by 
pretending  that  she  belonged  to  our  cause.  Other 
theories  are,  that  Ireland  would  not  be  our  enemy 
if  we  gave  her  independence.  Of  course  Ireland 
should  have  her  Republic.  I  say  it  not  as  an  Irish 
patriot,  or  even  as  an  Irish  sympathizer,  but  just 
as  an  onlooker,  it  seems  to  me  the  only  logical  pos- 
sibility. I  suppose  the  British  Empire  would 
lose  some  revenue  over  it,  money  is  always  at  the 
bottom  of  all  these  problems. 

When  LaFollette  had  finished,  Senator  Reed, 
who  had  once  or  twice  interrupted  (to  ask  for  in- 
formation, not  to  criticize)  crossed  the  house  and 
shook  hands  with  Senator  LaFollette.  Senator 
Reed  has  a  handsome,  regular,  rugged  face;  he  is 
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an  oldish  man,  gray  haired,  but  his  individuality  is 
full  of  fight  and  aggression.  He  surely  must  be  of 
Irish  origin.  Senator  Borah  was  pointed  out  to 
me.  He  has  a  curious,  wide,  crumpled-up,  force- 
ful face,  and  long  hair.  He  has  been  held  out  to 
me  as  one  of  the  heads  that  would  be  interesting 
to  do.  Henry  Cabot  Lodge  was  talking  in  a  back 
row  with  the  Mormon  Senator  Smoot.  I  remem- 
ber the  latter  when  I  was  here  ten  years  ago.  I 
met  him  one  evening  at  a  party,  and  papa  intro- 
duced us.  On  that  occasion  the  conversation 
drifted  upon  forms  of  government,  and  I  believe 
I  said  (papa  has  often  reminded  me  of  the  story) 
that  I  believed  in  feudalism,  my  idea  being  a  cas- 
tle surrounded  by  small  huts,  which  at  sight  of 
the  enemy  eject  their  inhabitants  into  the  castle  for 
protection.  Senator  Smoot  said  in  answer  to  this: 
"And  I  gather  from  this  that  you,  Miss  Frewen, 
would  be  living  in  the  castle."  I  have  progressed 
since  then!  I  feel  as  if  it  were  not  I  who  had  ad- 
vocated feudalism  ten  years  ago,  but  some  other 
person  within  me  who  is  a  stranger  to  me,  who 
is  neither  mother  nor  child  to  me. 

Senator  Lodge  joined  us  at  lunch  in  one  of  the 
private  offices.  I  sat  next  to  Senator  Curtis,  who 
is  one-eighth  Indian,  so  he  told  me.  The  only 
trace  of  it  was  in  his  fine  hawk  nose.  I  told  him  of 
my  hope  about  returning  from  Mexico  through 
the  National  Parks  and  he  told  me  a  lot  about  it, 

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and  much  that  was  interesting  about  the  Indians 
and  promised  to  help  me  in  my  scheme,  if  I  will 
write  and  let  him  know,  where  and  when  I  want 
to  go.  We  discussed  the  psychology  of  mixed 
races,  and  I  wondered  whether  the  faint  drop  of 
Indian  blood  in  my  own  veins  could  possibly  ac- 
count for  my  dislike  of  civilization,  and  my  long- 
ing to  get  away  into  the  wilds  alone.  He  thought 
that  even  such  a  remote  strain  might  account  for 
this. 

After  lunch  we  went  downstairs  to  Senator 
Medill  McCormick's  office.  I  had  not  yet  met  him 
as  he  has  been  away.  I  dined  at  the  McCormick's 
again  in  the  evening.  I  liked  the  Senator.  They 
are  both  wondrously  hospitable.  I  am  over- 
whelmed by  Washington  and  want  to  remain  here 
or  come  back.  Every  day  I  put  forth  a  deeper 
root.  New  York  has  been  hospitable,  but  whereas* 
in  New  York  I  feel  I  am  asked  because  I  am  a 
curiosity,  here  there  is  real  warmth  in  the  hos- 
pitality. I  like  all  the  people  I  have  met,  and  the 
women  are  intelligent  and  interested  in  politics, 
not  like  the  society  women  in  New  York,  who 
seem  to  affect  the  blase  aloofness  about  Washing- 
ton and  all  concerned.  As  for  Alice  Longworth, 
she  is  magnificent — "one  of  us,"  as  an  Englishman 
s^id  to  me,  meaning  it  as  the  highest  compliment 
he  could  pay!  She  is  not  "someone,"  merely  be- 
cause she  is  her  father's  daughter.  She  has  her  own 
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very  forceful  personality.  I  feel  she  is  the  woman 
who  should  have  gotten  into  the  precincts  of  Lenin 
and  Trotzky,  not  me!  And  they  would  have  ap- 
preciated her!    She  is  the  Madame  Kolontai  type. 

MAY  7,  1921.    New  York. 

I  have  had  a  good  week,  quite  one  of  the  best 
since  I  arrived  here.  I  had  an  order  from  Mr.  C. 
to  do  a  bust  of  Miss  Spence  for  the  school.  Mrs. 
C,  when  she  came  to  talk  to  me  about  it,  told  me 
that  Miss  Spence  had  to  be  treated  as  Royalty. 
Royalty  do  not  alarm  me,  and  I  expected  Miss 
Spence  would!  But  she  was  far  more  interesting 
than  that. 

Every  morning  except  one  Miss  Spence  had  sat 
to  me  from  10:15  unt^  l  o'clock — and  we  have 
hardly  stopped  talking  the  entire  time.     I  have 
enjoyed  every  moment  of  the  sittings,  and  subcon- 
sciously our  talks  have  helped  to  mature  certain 
plans  in  my  mind,  plans  as  to  the  future,  and  the 
education  of  my  children.    Miss  Spence  is  among 
the  largest  minded  people  I  have  met  over  here. 
I  like  her  points  of  view.    I  like  her  big  heart,  her 
adoration  of  immature  youth,  her  understanding, 
and  her  quick  grasp  of  situations.     Moreover  her 
head  is  extremely  interesting,  although  very  dif- 
ficult to  do.     Her  mouth  has  a  kindly  sense  of 
humor  without  being  weak.     Her  eyes,  when  she 
talks,  light  up  with  inward  vision  and  enthusiasm. 

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We  have  talked  a  great  deal  about  America, 
and  I  find  myself  talking  to  the  Scotchwoman  in 
her,  not  to  the  American  born.  It  becomes  a  very 
impartial  discussion.  The  position  of  woman 
here  as  compared  with  England  is- an  unworn-out 
subject.  The  attitude  of  Englishmen  toward  the 
marriage  state,  their  sense  of  possession,  their 
domination,  the  laws  of  divorce,  the  laws  of  cus- 
tody of  children,  we  have  reviewed  it  and  deplored 
it. 

To-day  there  is  an  account  in  the  New  York 
Herald  of  Lady  Astor  in  the  House  pleading  for 
mothers,  that  they  may  have  at  least  an  equal 
right  to  their  children,  and  as  Miss  Spence  pointed 
out,  how  strange  that  a  woman  from  this  country 
should  have  to  do  it  for  the  English  women! 

We  discussed  "Main  Street,"  which  we  are 
both  in  process  of  reading.  I  have  already  said 
that  its  author  is  the  Thackeray  of  the  United 
States,  but  Miss  Spence  said  even  more.  She  said: 
"It  is  Balsac-ian." 

Monday,  May  16,  1921.    Philadelphia. 

In  New  York  they  told  me  Philadelphia  was 
"slow."  I  came  to  Philadelphia  on  Saturday.  It 
has  not  been  "slow."  It  has  been  breathless.  I 
am  staying  with  friends  outside  Philadelphia,  in 
an  area  which  seems  to  be  known  as  the  "Chilten 
Hills."  Perhaps  the  Chilten  Hills  are  more  en- 
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ergetic  than  Philadelphia,  and  that  may  explain 
the  breathless  haste.  I  do  not  know.  I  have  not 
been  given  time  to  analyze  it. 

I  came  to  Philadelphia  because  the  "Arts  Al- 
liance" club  offered  me  an  exhibition  and  asked 
me  to  open  it  (to-night)  with  a  lecture. 

Sunday  was  one  uninterrupted  twelve-hour 
rush  in  which  one  met  over  and  over  again  (at 
places  miles  apart!)  the  same  friendly  faces  that 
I  had  learned  to  know  on  Saturday  night.  This 
is  the  way  the  overworked  American  rests  on  Sun- 
day: 

At  10  o'clock  I  was  taken  out  riding.  Only  once 
before  in  my  life — and  that  a  year  ago — had  I  ever 
ridden  astride.  I  was  mounted  on  a  thoroughbred 
hunter,  but  mercifully  it  was  as  quiet  as  a  lamb. 
We  rode  in  the  sun  for  two  hours.  Going  through 
peoples'  private  grounds  seems  to  be  no  offense  in 
this  country.  Some  time  ago — at  Bernardsville, 
New  Jersey,  I  walked  for  miles  unmolested 
through  peoples'  woods  and  gardens,  enjoyed  their 
fountains  and  their  flowers  and  their  lawns.  Yes- 
terday was  much  the  same.  We  rode  peacefully, 
not  "across  country,"  but  across  property.  Honor- 
ably sticking  to  the  paths,  of  course. 

People  don't  surround  their  grounds  with  walls 
and  hedges  and  ditches  here  as  in  England.  There 
appear  to  be  no  lodges  and  gates,  and  furious  peo- 
ple.   A  gateless  entrance  is  a  great  temptation,  it 

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looks  to  me  like  an  invitation.  No  Communist 
could  war  against  these  conditions.  It  really  gives 
one  a  sense  of  fraternity.  I  need  no  garden  of  my 
own,  if  I  may  walk  in  my  neighbor's.  His  azaleas 
look  just  the  same  as  mine  would  look,  and  his 
fountain  sings  the  same  song. 

Returning  from  our  ride  late,  we  jumped  into  a 
12-cylinder  two-seater,  in  our  riding  clothes,  and 
drove  at  a  speed  of  fifty  to  the  house  of  friends 
who  had  invited  us  for  cocktails  at  midday!  I  felt 
rather  as  if  we  were  film  playing!  At  the  friend's 
house  I  also  got  an  order  to  do  a  bust.  Thus  stim- 
ulated, we  returned  at  a  speed  of  sixty.  Got  home 
barely  in  time  to  bathe  and  change  and  start  off 
again  for  a  luncheon  party. 

After  luncheon  the  entire  party  motored  over 
to  Mr.  Stotesbury's  house.  This  incident  de- 
serves comment.  Mr.  Stotesbury's  house  is  just 
completed.  It  is  a  sort  of  Versailles.  In  reply  to 
comment  I  heard  someone  say:  "It  was  not  really 
built  so  very  quickly.  It  was  begun  five  years 
ago."  Five  years  in  which  to  begin  and  complete 
an  American  Versailles!  Complete  and  perfect 
inside  as  well  as  the  shell.  Five  years  ago  the  site 
on  which  it  stands  was  a  wild  countryside  which 
harbored  the  fox.  To-day  it  is  levelled,  terraced, 
planted  and  planned.  Fountains  tumble  and  splash 
arrogantly.  Neatly  trimmed  box  hedging  pursues 
its  Italian  design,  big  trees  brought  from  a  dis- 
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tance  thrive.  It  seems  that  you  can  bribe  quite 
aged  trees  to  survive  transplantation  that  otherwise 
would  die,  and  altogether  one  realizes  that  money 
can  remove  mountains  or  create  them.  Only — I 
discovered  one  rebel.  My  friend  the  orange  tree, 
recognizing  no  King  but  the  sun,  had  refused  to 
grow  oranges  to  order,  and  had  to  submit  to  having 
these  wired  on,  but  had  produced  no  blossom! 

The  house  was  immense;  faultless  in  architec- 
ture, and  full  of  beautiful  pictures  and  furniture. 
Nothing  seemed  to  have  been  omitted  in  the  plan- 
ning. There  was  nothing  to  criticise.  But  like 
those  people  one  meets  occasionally,  whose  souls 
are  still  very  young,  the  house  lacked  everything 
that  time  alone  could  bring.  But  Versailles  was 
new  once. 

I  suppose  it  gave  lots  of  employment,  and  I 
wonder  who  earned  the  most,  the  designer,  the 
contractor  or  the  worker. 

To-night  I  did  the  really  brave  thing.  I  stood 
up  to  an  audience  in  Rittenhouse  Square  and 
talked  about  Lenin  and  Trotzky! 

Everyone  listened  most  politely,  but  of  course 
I  could  not  expect  them  to  be  really  sympathetic. 
They  were  cold,  though  attentive.  I  don't  believe 
they  were  really  interested  about  Russia  at  all. 
However,  they  knew  it  was  about  Russia  I  was 
going  to  talk,  and  the  room  was  crowded  to  over- 
flowing.   In  the  dim  remoteness  I  caught  sight  of 

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Kenneth's  keen  archaic  face.  I  met  it  while  I  was 
in  the  middle  of  my  lecture.  It  rather  paralyzed 
me.  I  was  not  talking  my  best,  I  cannot,  to  an  un- 
responsive audience,  and  I  felt  ashamed  that  Ken- 
neth should  hear  me  for  the  first  time,  and  in  such 
a  way.  He  told  me  afterwards  that  I  had  done 
all  that  was  possible,  but  asked  if  I  understood  his 
reaction.    He  was  bred  in  Rittenhouse  Square! 

Later  someone  in  the  crowd  asked  me  rather  ex- 
citedly if  I  had  heard  the  news,  that  "the  Soviet 
Representative  was  here  among  us  this  eve- 
ning. .  .  ."  My  informant  said  it  half  incredulously, 
not  knowing  in  the  least  who  the  Soviet  Represent- 
ative could  be,  and  wondering  if  I  would  not  be 
rather  frightened  at  the  idea  of  having  been  lis- 
tened to  by  an  official! 

Someone  else  said  to  me:  "I  know  what  your 
political  views  are,  you've  entirely  given  yourself 
away  .  .  ."  "Explain,"  I  said.  "Why  of  course 
you  are  a  Bolshevist,  because  at  the  end  of  your 
lecture  when  you  offered  to  answer  questions  you 
said  they  must  not  be  economic  questions,  because 
at  the  mere  thought  of  economics  your  mind  be- 
comes a  perfect  blank.  That  is  exactly  the  case 
with  all  Bolshevists!" 

Tuesday,  May  17,  1921.    New  York. 

I  dined  with  the  G.'s  to  meet  Mr.  Hearst.  I 
have  heard  almost  more  about  him  than  anyone 
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in  America,  and  I  was  curious  to  see  him.  Great 
was  my  disappointment  when  I  was  told  that 
Hearst  was  not  there.  He  had  been  called  away 
suddenly  to  Boston. 

Mrs.  Hearst  came,  and  I  sat  next  to  Mr.  Bris- 
bane. I  did  not  feel  he  was  amiably  disposed  to- 
wards me  at  first,  but  I  was  careful  not  to  discuss 
Anglo-American  relations  or  the  Irish  question, 
and  when  I  told  him  I  was  contemplating  educat- 
ing my  children  over  here  Mr.  Brisbane  melted  a 
little.  We  talked  about  the  absent  Hearst,  whom  I 
realize  is  a  great  storm  centre  in  this  country.  I 
must  meet  him  before  my  curiosity  can  be  allayed. 
I  want  to  get  my  own  impression  of  him.  Russia 
has  taught  me  that  individuals  are  not  as  the  world 
says  they  are.  Mrs.  Hearst,  who  is  very  pretty, 
was  treated  like  a  queen.  Men  sat  on  the  floor  at 
her  feet,  admiringly,  and  social  reformers  sat  at 
her  elbow  beseechingly,  and  she  smiled  and  as- 
sented, and  listened  and  promised,  and  did  all  that 
a  perfectly  good  queen  should  do,  and  like  a  per- 
fectly real  queen,  jewel  crowned,  she  arose  and  left 
before  anyone  else.  But  not  without  my  telephone 
number  and  address.  Mr.  Brisbane  eventually 
dropped  me  home  in  his  car,  he  too  promised,  ii\ 
the  name  of  the  queen,  that  I  should  meet  Hearst, 
and  maybe — who  knows?  Meanwhile  the  mys- 
tery of  Hearst  is  still  unsolved  for  me,  but  I  see 
that  I  shall  now  have  to  add  to  my  daily's  the 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

New  York  American  because  of  Brisbane.  Al- 
ready I  read  the  Herald  on  account  of  Frank 
Munsey,  The  World  because  of  Herbert  Swope, 
and  the  TIMES  because  of — well,  because  it  origin- 
ally god-fathered  me!  As  well  as  the  Nation, 
The  New  Republic,  the  Freeman,  Liberator, 
and  Soviet  Russia,  most  of  whom  have  given  me 
"Luncheons" ;  also  Arts  and  Decorations,  whose 
co-editor  once  told  me  in  unmeasured  terms  ex- 
actly what  he  thought  of  me  for  attaching  undue 
importance  to  the  Soviet  leaders  by  having  the  ef- 
frontery to  go  and  portray  them! 

Thus,  as  my  knowledge  increases,  my  working 
time  decreases ! 

Saturday,  May  21,  1921. 

Dick  and  I  and  Louise  started  off  for  the  week- 
end, not  knowing  in  the  least  where  we  were  going 
to.     Someone  fetched  us,  our  tickets  were  taken 
and  we  were  put  on  a  train  for  Philadelphia.    At 
Philadelphia  we  were  removed  to  a  private  car. 
The   day  was   steaming  hot,   and   Dick   enjoyed 
standing  out  on  the  balcony  at  the  end  of  the  car. 
It  reminded  me  of  my  journey  to  Moscow,  the 
private  car  that  met  Kameneff  was  just  like  it, 
perhaps  it  was  made  in  the  U.  S.    At  Harrisburg 
we  had  an  hour  to  wait  and  went  motoring  in  the 
town.     First  we  visited  the  Capitol  to  see  George 
Barnard's  sculpture  groups.  These  are  attached  to 
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the  building  on  either  side  of  the  entrance,  and 
they  do  not  seem  rightly  to  belong  to  the  place. 
Perhaps  Barnard  is  too  individualistic  to  be  archi- 
tectural. We  then  drove  along  the  riverside  to  the 
Country  Club,  which  was  opening  that  day.  I 
must  say,  that  if  Harrisburg  happened  to  be  one's 
"home-town,"  or  if  by  accident  of  fate  one's  father 
or  husband's  work  attached  one  there,  I  can  im- 
agine living  very  happily  in  one  of  those  riverside 
residences,  bathed  in  sunshine,  and  prefaced  wi 
a  lawn  and  trees — overlooking  the  great  wide  river 
with  its  islands  and  rapids,  and  the  mountains  be- 
yond.   It  was  truly  gradiose. 

Having  in  one  hour  "done"  Harrisburg,  the 
capital  of  Pennsylvania,  we  then  continued  our 
journey  until  we  fetched  up  in  a  place  called 
Chambersburg.  This  seemed  to  me  remote,  and 
detached  from  the  world. 

That  evening  a  dance  made  of  me  a  total  wreck, 
but  the  next  day  was  heavenly,  spent  in  sleeping 
on  the  grass  in  the  shadow  of  a  bush.  Dick  tossed 
hay  and  said  it  smelt  of  home,  and  there  was  a 
rivulet  which  engulfed  his  boat,  but  he  did  not 
cry,  he  climbed  onto  the  sluice  gate  and  made  be- 
lieve the  wheel  was  steering  a  real  ship,  and  that 
comforted  him.  It  was  real,  wild,  ragged  country, 
and  we  were  happy.  But  it  was  a  long  way  to  go 
for  one  night  and  one  day.  On  Sunday  night  we 
travelled  back  on  the  private  car,  sleeping  fitfully. 

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Since  then  Dick's  toy  trains  are  all  private  cars, 
and  I  had  hoped  to  make  a  good  Socialist  of  him. 
All  my  work  and  plans  are  ruined.  He  seems  to 
have  become  so  very  exclusive! 

Friday,  May  27,  1921.    Philadelphia. 

Having  deposited  Dick  in  New  York,  and  hav- 
ing had  a  second  inoculation  for  typhoid  (pre- 
paratory for  Mexico)  and  feeling  quite  ill,  I  re- 
turned to  Philadelphia  on  Tuesday.  The  place  is 
becoming  almost  familiar  to  me.  It  is  not  unlike 
an  English  old-world  town,  there  are  parts  of  it 
that  recall  Winchester,  or  even  remote  bits  of  Lon- 
don. I  have  come  to  work.  When  I  was  here 
last  someone  commissioned  me  to  do  her  husband. 
"If  you  can  get  him  to  sit  for  you,"  she  said.  I 
have  got  him.  It  is  true  he  made  every  effort  to 
evade  me,  to  escape  me,  to  postpone  me.  But  I 
was  determined  not  to  be  beat,  and  I  gave  him  no 
loophole.  Dr.  Tait  McKenzie  has  lent  me  his 
studio,  and  my  victim  comes  there  every  morning 
from  11  to  1.  He  says  he  hates  it,  and  he  arrives 
protesting  and  resentful.  But  I  like  him,  and  we 
talk  quite  pleasantly  all  the  time  without  stopping. 
I  think  he  resents  it  less  than  he  imagines.  He  has 
a  good  head,  typically  American. 

When  I  get  back  in  the  afternoon  to  my  friends 
in  the  Chilten  Hills,  where  I  am  staying,  I  work 
in  the  loggia,  on  the  portrait  of  their  little  daugh- 
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ter.  She  is  the  same  age  as  my  Margaret,  and 
makes  me  feel  rather  homesick.  To-morrow  I  re- 
turn to  New  York,  my  work  completed. 

Sunday,  May  29,  1921.    New  York. 

Dick  and  I  with  Kenneth,  caught  an  1 1  .-30  train 
for  Croton.     We  lunched  with  Crystal  Eastman 
and  her  husband,  Walter  Fuller,  in  a  roadside  cot- 
tage surrounded  by  roses.  It  was  real  country  and, 
luxuriantly  green,  with  the  fresh  immaturity  of 
impending  summer.     In  the  orchard  on  the  steep 
grassy  hill  behind  the  house  the  children  climbed 
a  cherry  tree,  and  Dick  brought  me  greenleafed 
branches  hanging  with  ripe  sweet  cherries.    After 
lunch  we  walked  up  the  road  to  see  the  view  from 
the  top  of  the  hill.    There  is  a  sort  of  Colony  at 
Croton,   and  every  other  house  is  inhabited  by 
someone  one  knows,  or  who  knows  the  other.    All 
work-worn  journalists,  artists  and  Bohemians  gen- 
erally, who  come  there  with  their  children  for  a 
rest.    The  houses  have  no  gardens,  the  grass  grows 
long  and  the  rose  bushes  are  weed  tangled.    Now 
and  then  a  bunch  of  peonies  survives.     The  cot- 
tages have  almost  an  abandoned  look,  for  the  town 
toilers  are  too  weary  to  work  in  their  gardens  when 
they  get  there.    Towards  the  hill  summit  I  noticed 
a  wooden  veranda'd  cottage,  looking  rather  ne- 
glected and  lonely,  the  ground  sloped  down  to  a 
stream  where  some  yellow  and  some  purple  iris 

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bloomed  amid  the  waste.    On  the  post  box  at  the 
gate  were  inscribed  the  two  names:  Reed,  Bryant, 
and  sure  enough  it  was  the  summer  cottage  of 
Jack    Reed    and   his    wife.      My   thoughts    shot 
straight  across  to  Moscow,  and  to  the  grave  under 
the  Kremlin  wall.     At  the  top  of  the  hill  we  lay 
down  in  the  long  grass  under  the  shadow  of  a 
giant  tree,  and  felt  like  insects,  with  the  butter- 
cups so  much  higher  than  ourselves,  and  the  tall 
seed  grasses  like  slender  trees  above  our  heads. 
Dick,  who  was  unrestful,  and  looking  for  work, 
built  a  wall  of  loose  stones  between  us,  "to  separate 
us,"  he  said,  and  that  accomplished  he  proceeded 
to  pull  down  a  post  and  chain  and  dig  up  another. 
In  my  half  somnolent  state  I  was  aware  of  much 
hammering  and  cracking  and  splitting  but  took  no 
notice.    After  awhile  Dick  came  running  to  me, 
and  in  some  trepidation  asked  anxiously  if  he  were 
likely  to  be  put  in  prison. 

"What  on  earth  for?"  I  asked. 
"Because  I've  been  destroying  the  man's  prop- 
erty," he  said. 

"Whatman?"  I  asked. 
"The  man  whom  this  place  belongs  to." 
"Be  happy,"  I  advised  him;  "be  happy  and  en- 
joy whatever  the  work  is  you  have  undertaken  even 
if  it's  the  destruction  of  the  other  fellow's  prop- 
erty." And  so  Dick  went  back,  and  the  sounds  of 
hammering  were  mingled  with  a  love  song  he'd 
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learned  from  the  gramaphone  and  no  man  dis- 
turbed our  peace. 

Returning  whence  we  came,  after  a  time,  we 
sauntered  into  the  garden  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Board- 
man  Robinson,  there  on  a  slope,  overlooking  the 
tennis  court  and  the  wonderful  distant  view  of  the 
Hudson;  a  large  party  eventually  foregathered. 
Quite  apart  from  the  fact  that  it  was  pleasant,  con- 
ditions made  it  extremely  attractive.  It  was  as 
though  Greenwich  Village  in  summer  array  had 
been  dumped  down  with  almost  deliberate  pagean- 
try upon  the  grass.  There  were  men  in  open- 
necked  shirts,  and  there  was  one  in  a  green 
sweater,  another  in  a  butcher  blouse  shirt  and  cor- 
duray  trousers  like  a  French  ouvrier.  Women  in 
yellow,  and  orange,  children  in  royal  blue,  <or 
bare-armed  and  bare-legged  in  bathing  suits; 
lovely  splotches  of  color  grouped  among  the  tree 
stems.  Boardman  Robinson,  looking  like  a  primi- 
tive man,  with  his  red  unkempt  beard,  bushy  eye- 
brows and  hair  standing  on  end,  lay  on  his  stom- 
ach in  the  grass  listening  intently  to  Walter  Ful- 
ler's little  sister,  who  sang  old  English  folk  songs 
to  us,  and  sang  them  gracefully  without  any  self- 
consciousness.  Floyd  Dell,  the  author  of  "Moon- 
Calf,"  was  there,  and  a  great  many  people  I  didn't 
know.  And  all  the  children  were  good  (by  a 
strange  coincidence  there  was  not  a  girl-child 
among  them  .  ...  I)  and  all  the  people  were  happy. 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

One  or  two  mothers  asked  me  (and  I  looked  at 
them  twice  to  see  if  they  were  serious)  when  in  my 
opinion  conditions  in  Russian  would  be  sufficiently 
adjusted  to  enable  them  to  take  their  children 
there  for  education. 

That  evening,  about  8:15,  the  train  disgorged 
us  in  New  York,  and  Dick,  looking  truly  prole- 
tarian, went  triumphantly  two  hours  late  to  bed. 

Monday,  May  30,  1921. 

I  spent  all  the  afternoon  sitting  to  Emil  Fuchs. 
He  painted  me  last  15  years  ago.  Since  then  much 
water  has  flowed  under  the  bridge.  He  did  me 
then  in  a  big  Gainsborough  hat  and  a  fashionable 
black  dress.  I  had  just  emerged  from  the  school- 
room and  my  ambition  was  to  look  like  a  widow. 
To-day  he  did  me  in  my  yellow  working  smock. 

I  have  known  him  since  I  was  twelve  years  old, 
in  the  days  when  he  worked  in  London  and  Ed- 
ward VII  was  his  patron.  Success  leaves  no  im- 
print on  Fuchs.  He  is  one  of  those  modest  ever- 
dissatisfied-with-himself,  over-sensitive  beings.  He 
has  never  grown  the  extra  skin  which  is  one's  ar- 
mor in  dealing  with  the  world.  Fuchs  is  almost 
too  sensitive,  too  deep  feeling  to  be  able  to  live 
at  all.  All  his  thoughts  are  beautiful  thoughts,  and 
if  the  world  is  not  as  beautiful  as  he  demands  it 
should  be  he  feels  almost  suicidal  with  depres- 
sion. He  is  the  most  generous-souled,  pure-visioned 
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person  I  have  ever  known.  He  likes  very  few 
people,  and  makes  few  friends,  but  those  he  does 
make  are  more  devoted  to  him  than  other  people's 
friends  are  to  them  1 

The  picture  began  awfully  well,  I  have  great 
hopes  and  he  was  wildly  enthusiastic.  It  was  one 
of  the  few  occasions  on  which  I  have  seen  him 
happy. 

JUNE  2,  1921.    New  York. 

Yesterday  I  went  downtown  to  the  Mexican 
Consulate.  As  soon  as  I  walked  in,  Tata-Nacho 
saw  me,  and  this  strange  looking  descendant  of 
Montezuma,  in  a  musty  office,  showed  me  every 
possible  attention.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  the  act- 
ing consul  sent  me  word  that  he  was  not  sure  if 
he  could  give  me  a  vise,  or  not,  as  Bolsheviks  are 
not  wanted  in  Mexico!  Think  of  Mexico  becom- 
ing so  respectable !  I  was  asked  to  return  the  next 
day  for  my  answer.  This  morning,  feeling  disin- 
clined for  a  downtown  journey  on  chance,  I  tele- 
phoned, demanding  my  vise  by  post  or  my  refusal 
by  phone.  "There  are  other  places  to  go  to  for 
the  summer,"  I  explained,  "and  I  don't  have  to  go 
to  Mexico!"  The  answer  was  that  everything  was 
in  order. 

I  dined  on  the  Astor  roof  in  Broadway  with  M., 
who  sails  for  Europe  in  the  morning  en  route  for 
Moscow.    It  is  a  delightfully  planned  place  such 

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as  I  have  never  seen  before,  and  mixed  with  our 
talk  of  Russia,  making  a  fitting  background, 
"Macy's"  Scarlet  Star,  the  communist  emblem, 
stood  defiantly  illuminated  against  the  sky. 

Monday,  June  13,  1921.  New  York. 

We  stayed  with  our  cousins,  the  Jerome  Law- 
rences, at  Rye,  for  the  week  end.  It  is  on  "the 
Sound."  We  motored  to  the  yacht  club  and  lay  on 
rocks  in  the  sun,  getting  more  and  more  burned. 
Dick,  after  paddling  for  some  time,  demanded  to 
bathe.  To  my  amazement,  I  was  told  that  not  only 
must  he  put  on  a  bathing  suit,  but  he  must  undress 
in  the  bathing  house.  Dick  asked  "why?"  He  is 
accustomed  every  year  in  England  to  be  sunkissed, 
either  in  the  sea  or  in  the  woods — whenever  there 
is  a  warm  enough  sun.  I  have  taken  many  photo- 
graphs of  him  and  Margaret  naked  on  the  hill- 
side and  among  the  flowers.  There  is  nothing  on 
earth  more  beautiful  than  the  body  of  a  child. 

I  recall  my  horror  when  a  nun  at  Margaret's 
Convent  told  her  that  she  must  never  look  at  her- 
self because  the  human  body  is  "disgusting"  (she 
used  the  term),  and  Margaret  asked  her,  "Who 
made  our  bodies?  and  who  made  our  clothes?" 
Such  an  attitude  of  mind  in  a  nun  is  perhaps  not 
unexpected,  but  one  is  surprised  at  the  lack  of  sim- 
plicity in  a  great  primitive  country.  But  in  the 
United  States  the  Puritan  origin  has  dominated 

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over  all  other  races  with  which  it  has  eventually 
become  amalgamated;  stronger  than  the  Latin  is 
the  Puritan — stronger  than  the  German,  the 
Dutch,  the  Irish,  or  the  Jew.  In  this  amazing 
country  even  the  mature  foreign  element  is  bent, 
broken,  molded,  forced  into  an  American!  And 
in  a  very  short  space  of  time — it  is  this  standardi- 
zation that  suppresses  individuality.  In  this  par- 
ticular instance  I  suppose  it  is  good  that  the  masses 
should  bathe  in  suits,  it  is  good  for  the  masses  that 
the  bathers  should  undress  under  cover,  and  so  it 
goes  on  from  little  to  larger  things,  from  unim- 
portant details  to  larger  issues.  Some  day  per- 
haps, when  there  is  time  to  stop  to  take  a  breath 
a  few  individualities  will  be  allowed  to  live  among 
the  standardized — at  present  those  few  slip  off 
abroad,  and  live  there!  But  I  am  not  complain- 
ing, I  am  only  wondering  why  with  all  its  restric- 
tions, I  like  living  in  it  better  than  I  like  living  in 
the  freest  country  on  earth — England! 

On  Sunday  night  I  had  one  of  the  great  sur- 
prises of  my  life.  It  will  be  as  memorable  as  any 
of  the  big  events  that  have  come  to  me.  We  were 
sitting  on  the  piazza  at  dusk,  and  I  asked,  point- 
ing to  the  bushes:  "Am  I  mad?  What  is  that?" 
"That  is  a  firefly."  I  had  heard  vaguely  of  fire- 
flies, but  no  one  had  ever  described  to  me  what  a 
June  night  in  America  could  be  like.  W.  B.  Yeats 
has  written  of  Ireland  that  "the  night  was  full  of 

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the  sound  of  linnets'  wings,"  but  I  have  not  read 
the  poet  who  has  sung  about  the  fireflies.  As  the 
night  became  darker,  the  world  became  full  of 
small,  twinkling,  winking,  dancing  lights,  from  the 
highest  tree-tops  down  to  the  grass.  I  ran  upstairs. 
Dick  was  asleep.  I  hoisted  him  on  to  my  back  and 
carried  him,  still  sleeping,  out  into  the  wild 
orchard  across  the  road.  Presently  Dick  lifted  a 
sleepy  head  from  my  shoulder  and  looked  around 
him.  "It's  the  Germans  shootin',"  he  said.  "No,"  I 
corrected,  "it's  fairies."  He  gave  a  little  giggle  of 
delight  and  exclaimed:  "Fairies!  To  guard  us? — " 
And  as  I  walked  towards  the  dark  trees  in  the  dis- 
tance he  clung  around  my  neck.  "Don't  let's  get 
lost  in  fairyland."  The  crickets  were  making  an 
unholy  and  flippant  noise.  It  was  all  very  merry 
and  happy.  There  were  darting  lights  all  around 
us,  in  the  long  grass  at  our  feet,  in  the  bushes  over- 
head, against  the  darkness  of  the  distance,  exactly 
like  the  scene  of  the  treetops  in  Peter  Pan.  On 
our  way  home  Dick  said,  "I  don't  think  they're 
fairies,  I  think  it's  the  stars  have  come  down  to 
play." 

I  looked  up  at  the  sky.  It  was  full  of  stars — 
stable,  serious,  solemn  stars.  What  star  would  not, 
if  it  could,  drop  down  to  earth  and  play  hide  and 
seek  with  the  moon  shadows  and  mischievously 
rouse  all  the  crickets  on  a  June  night.  Yes,  I  think 
I  agree  with  Dick,  they  were  young  baby  stars, 
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making  merry.  In  two  minutes  from  the  time  his 
head  touched  the  pillow  Dick  was  fast  asleep 
again.  I  went  in  search  of  Mary  Brennan,  the 
Irish  maid,  who  is  Dick's  friend.  "Mary!"  I  said, 
"when  you  see  Dick  in  the  morning,  remember  he 
has  been  playing  to-night  with  stars."  "Not  with 
firebugs?"  Mary  answered  with  perfect  under- 
standing. 

Friday,  June  17.   New  York. 

My  last  night  before  sailing,  and  I  was  taken 
to  dine  on  a  roof  in  Brooklyn.  It  was  the  roof  of  a 
hotel,  and  it  was  very  cleverly  made  to  look  like 
the  deck  of  a  ship.  From  that  deck  one  had  a 
most  superb  view  of  one  bit  of  New  York — a  mon- 
umental group  of  buildings  which  included  the 
Woolworth  Tower  and  seemed  to  rise  up  out  of 
the  sea.  In  the  distance  was  the  Statue  of  Liberty 
holding  up  her  torch  for  the  ships  at  sea.  We 
watched  the  sun  set  behind  the  tall  buildings,  and 
the  lights  and  shadows  seemed  to  produce  a  cubis- 
tic  picture.  But  I  was  silenced  by  so  much  beauty. 
Is  it  my  artist  eyes,  I  wonder,  that  make  me  so  ap- 
preciative of  the  world?  How  strange  that  the 
Earth  is  always  beautiful,  and  Man's  buildings 
sometimes  are,  especially  with  surroundings  and 
background  of  color  and  light  and  shade.  It  is 
only  in  the  human  mind  and  the  human  body  that 
God  seems  to  have  failed  sometimes. 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

Sunday,  June  19,  1921. 

S.  S.  Monterey.  En  route  for  Vera  Cruz. 

Dick  and  I  are  so  happy.  It  is  calm  as  a  lake 
and  gets  better  every  hour. 

The  first  day  the  color  of  the  sea  was  a  deep 
Prussian  blue.  The  next  day  it  was  pure  sapphire. 
To-day  it  has  been  the  same  color  as  the  sky,  so 
you  could  not  tell  where  they  met  on  the  horizon, 
and  so  transparent  that  one  could  see  the  fishes 
deep  down.  There  were  flying  fishes  too.  They 
rose  up  at  our  ship's  prow  and  skimmed  over  the 
sea  surface  like  little  silver  aeroplanes! 

The  ship  seems  so  small  and  the  sea  so  large  and 
we  seem  to  be  going  so  slowly,  so  leisurely,  as  if 
all  the  time  in  the  world  were  at  our  disposal  and 
we  simply  didn't  care  where  or  when  we  fetched 
up. 

Last  night  it  was  agreed  that  Dick  should  stay 
up  late  as  a  great  treat.  He  wanted  to  see  how 
night  comes  on  the  ocean.  Almost  as  if  it  were  for 
Dick's  appreciation,  night  played  up  in  the  most 
dramatic  fashion.  From  behind  a!  cloud  bank 
there  appeared  a  tiny  speck  of  orange.  It  grew  in 
as  short  a  space  as  could  be  counted  in  seconds  into 
a  big  round  moon,  a  cloud  that  drooped  over  it  was 
lit  up  like  a  human  face  by  firelight.  Dick  asked: 
"Who  is  the  figure  in  the  sky?"  It  looked  like  a 
giant  Destiny  gazing  into  an  orange  crystal.  The 
reflection  made  a  golden  rippling  pathway  straight 

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across  the  sea  to  us.  Dick,  who  was  sitting  on  the 
ship's  bow  with  his  legs  dangling  over  and  one 
arm  tightly  clinging  round  my  neck,  suddenly 
kissed  me,  fervently,  which  was  exactly  what  I  felt 
about  it!  On  the  opposite  side  there  was  a  light- 
ning display  for  our  benefit.  It  came  from  one 
point,  always  from  behind  the  same  cloud  bank. 
It  turned  the  sky  into  the  most  perfect  Valkyrie 
background.  When  Dick  asked  me  what  the  stars 
were  like  to  touch:  "Are  they  soft,  or  do  they 
burn?"  I  had  to  tell  him  they  were  great  big 
worlds  like  ours.  Dick  felt  very  small — we  both 
did. 

Whatever  Mexico  may  or  may  not  have  in  store 
for  us,  the  journey  alone  is  well  worth  while.  The 
contrast  after  four  bewildering  months  in  New 
York  is  extreme.  The  peace  and  the  beauty  are 
reviving  and  one  gets  back  one's  sense  of  judg- 
ment, which  one  is  apt  to  lose  in  the  crowd. 

How  unimportant  it  is,  whether  anyone  thinks  I 
am  or  am  not  Bolshevik,  how  little  it  matters  if 
someone  has  turned  their  back  on  me  at  dinner,  or 
unduly  praised  whatever  work  I've  done.  How 
completely  nothing  matters  except  to  be  on  speak- 
ing terms  with  oneself,  and  one  cannot  be  unless 
one  is  living  one's  own  life,  and  not  playing  a 
part.  All  of  which  sounds  very  pedantic.  I  be- 
lieve one  is  apt  to  get  pedantic  if  one  is  alone. 

No  one  on  board  is  the  least  interesting,  but  one 

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young  man  has  insisted  on  attaching  himself.  He 
is  a  Mexican  architect,  who  has  just  graduated 
from  the  University  at  Philadelphia.  He  will  be 
very  useful  at  Vera  Cruz  with  the  luggage.  There 
is  a  middle-aged  American  who  inspires  that  un- 
failing American  reliability.  When  I  told  him 
what  I  had  heard  of  Mexico  and  Mexicans: 
"Forget  it!"  he  said;  and  so  I  am  facing  my  destin- 
ation with  a  blank  mind. 

My  feelings  at  leaving  New  York  were  conflict- 
ing. In  a  sort  of  way  I  felt  I  was  leaving  home. 
The  compliment  (for  it  should  be  a  compliment) 
has  two  sides:  Home  of  course  is  Home;  but  one  is 
always  rather  pleased  to  get  away.  The  U.  S.  is 
so  conventional  and  comfortable,  so  proper  and 
business-like,  so  well  regulated,  so  absolutely  just 
what  it  should  be,  it  is  like  married  life!  To  leave 
it,  to  launch  out  into  the  blue  unknown  is  excit- 
ing and  stimulating.  It  seems  to  me  I  belong  to 
two  rather  prosaic  countries.  I,  who  love  color, 
song,  romance!  There  is  no  reason  why  one  should 
have  to  choose  between  them,  each  supplies  some- 
thing the  other  lacks,  and  I  might  as  well  own 
them  both.  But  Old  World  and  tradition  have  be- 
come museum  preserves.  They  are  no  longer 
working  concerns;  and  the  word  "Imperialism" 
gives  me  a  pain  in  my  head.  So  much  for  my  fa- 
ther's land.  In  my  mother's  country  I  find  a  heap 
of  things  that  irritate  me,  but  it's  a  "live-world," 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

efficient,  and  infinitely  large.  There  is  space, 
without  Imperialism,  a  new  world,  without  decad- 
ence, and  without  tradition.  Although  it  is  reac- 
tionary and  conservative  on  the  surface,  it  is  at 
heart  young  and  progressive  and  opens  wide  areas 
to  new  ideas. 

Thursday,  June  23,  1921. 

We  arrived  in  Havana  and  went  ashore  about 
10  A.M.  Not  having  so  far  made  friends  with 
anyone  on  board,  Dick,  I  and  Louise  went  off 
alone.  From  the  tugboat  that  brought  us  off  our 
ship  we  stumbled  on  the  quay  into  the  arms  of  a 
guide,  who  stood  in  wait.  Unable  to  speak  a  word 
of  Spanish,  we  allowed  him  to  attach  himself  to 
us.  We  were  to  have  his  guideship  and  the  ser- 
vices of  a  Ford  car  for  three  hours,  $10  complete. 
They  were  suffocating  hours.  The  sun  beat  down 
on  the  canvas  hood  of  the  little  car  which  bumped 
and  rattled  through  the  uneven,  narrow  streets. 
The  guide,  true  to  type  (it  recalled  old  days  in 
Italy!)  was  boring  and  garrulous.  I  wanted  to 
get  a  general  impression  of  Havana,  and  my  con- 
templation was  rudely  broken  into  when  the  Y. 
M.  C.  A.'s  building  was  insistently  pointed  out  to 
me,  and  similarly  other  buildings  of  no  interest. 

The  Cathedral  where  Columbus  was  buried 
alone  stands  out  in  my  memory  as  a  thing  of 
beauty,  but  we  got  no  further  than  an  inner  court- 

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yard — the  Cathedral  itself  was  closed  for  repairs. 
The  town  seemed  to  have  innumerable,  modern 
marble  monuments,  each  one  more  in  ill  taste  than 
the  other  and  each  Cuban  patriot  thus  commem- 
orated had  to  be  described  at  length  by  our  un- 
shaven guide.  As  for  the  living  Havanians,  they 
seemed  to  me  to  be  a  people  asleep.  Everywhere 
they  sleptf  at  full  length  on  the  ground  in  the 
squares;  in  the  avenues  or  leaning  in  doorways — 
even  our  chauffeur  was  asleep  in  the  car  when  we 
came  out  from  stamping  letters  at  the  post  office! 
People  who  walked  in  the  street  looked  at  us  won- 
deringly  and  sleepily,  open-mouthed  and  heavy- 
eyed.  It  may  have  been  the  siesta  hour  of  the 
town.  After  lunching  at  the  Hotel  Ingleterra  we 
made  for  the  quay,  and  there  chartering  a  motor 
boat  explored  the  harbor  before  returning  on 
board.  That  was  the  part  Dick  liked  best.  He  had 
been  very  bored  with  the  town,  and  was  greatly 
relieved  to  hear  that  Havana  was  not  Mexico,  as 
he  has  great  expectations  of  our  ultimate  destina- 
tion. 

A  few  new  passengers  joined  the  ship  in  the 
evening,  a  few  old  ones  having  left.  Those  that 
have  been  on  board  from  New  York,  seem  to  have 
done  the  usual  ship  trick,  which  is  to  break  up  into 
couples  and  walk  round  the  ship's  angles  at  dusk, 
arm  round  waist.  One  looks  on  almost  cynically, 
the  thing  is  so  inevitable.  My  cynicism  and  aloof- 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

ness  makes  me  feel  old.  Dick,  however,  knows  the 
whole  ship — the  youngest  and  the  oldest  passen- 
gers are  his  devoted  friends ;  the  officers,  the  stew- 
ards and  the  ship  hands  are  his  intimates.  The 
captain,  who  teases  him  with  great  earnestness,  is 
taken  very  seriously  and  more  respected  by  Dick 
than  loved.  But  the  little  girl  passengers  he  treats 
with  almost  silent  contempt! 

The  only  friend  I  have  on  board  is  the  "reliable 
American,"  and  he  proves  to  be  of  the  type  that 
confirms  all  my  views  about  American  men.  He 
just  is  reliable,  and  thoughtful  and  infinitely  kind. 
Nor  is  he  a  negligible  personality.  He  is  the 
president  of  an  important  company — and  was  ar- 
rested and  condemned  to  death  by  Villa  during 
one  of  the  revolutions.  Why  he  is  alive  to  tell  the 
tale  is  just  a  case  of  luck.  He  has  the  simplicity 
and  the  national  pride  of  the  usual  American,  but 
he  can  speak  French,  Spanish  and  Italian,  and 
even  read  them.  It  is  he,  and  not  the  young  Mexi- 
can architect,  who  promises  to  be  useful  with  the 
luggage  at  Vera  Cruz! 

We  paused  five  miles  out  from  Progresso,  to  un- 
load some  cargo  and  take  on  some  new  passengers, 
all  of  which  was  done  with  infinite  labor  by  steam 
tug  and  barge.  One  of  our  fellow  travelers  is  a 
Syrian  Jew  going  ashore  at  Progresso  and  invited 
me  to  go  with  him  to  see  the  town,  but  the  reliable 
American  assured  me  the  Syrian  would  delay  me 

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sightseeing  until  after  the  departure  of  our  ship, 
and  he  thought  my  adventures  need  not  begin  quite 
so  soon.    Accordingly  I  remained  on  board. 

I  have  learned  something  on  the  journey  al- 
ready, and  that  is,  to  appreciate  the  sallow  ivory 
complexions  of  the  South  Americans;  both  in  the 
men  as  in  the  women  it  seems  to  be  infinitely  more 
beautiful  than  the  best  admired  pink  and  white  to 
which  one  is  accustomed.  I  noticed  it  particularly 
when  a  fresh  fair  complexioned  man  was  talking 
with  the  olive-skinned  Syrian,  the  fair  man  looked 
so  pink  in  comparison,  that  one  felt  he  had  been 
skinned. 

The  journey  has  been  perfect,  only  one  night 
was  it  too  hot,  and  I  had  to  carry  Dick  on  deck  to 
sleep.  For  the  rest  it  has  been  cool  and  calm,  un 
til  about  two  hours  from  Vera  ruz  when  we  ran 
into  a  storm.  Then  my  beautiful  jeweled  sea  be- 
came angry  and  white  capped  and  opaque,  and 
spat  forth  spray,  but  it  had  not  long  in  which  to 
do  its  worse,  and  at  four  P.M.  on  Monday,  June 
27th,  we  landed. 

Tuesday,  June  28,  1921.    Vera  Cruz. 

I  find  I  am  always  justified  in  not  fussing  be- 
forehand as  to  the  ultimate  unravelling  of  details. 
In  Russia,  wherever  I  needed  help,  the  necessity  of 
the  occasion  created  a  friend,  and  so  it  is  this  time : 
The  reliable  American,  friend  of  a  few  days  only, 
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could  not  have  done  more  for  me  if  I  had  been  his 
sister.  He  helped  me  through  the  customs  with 
my  baggage,  was  joined  by  his  partner,  another 
reliable  American  who,  having  known  me  not 
more  than  twenty  minutes,  gave  up  his  room  at  the 
hotel  to  me,  because  there  was  not  another  to  be 
had.  If  ever  a  poet  were  required  to  sing  praises 
the  American  man  deserves  his  poet. 

The  hotel  bedroom  was  high,  floor  tiled  and  al- 
most empty  of  furniture  except  for  two  double 
beds.  Long  windows  opened  on  to  a  balcony  over- 
looking the  square,  full  of  green  tropical  trees  and 
flowering  shrubs.  A  great  gnarled  fire-tree,  with 
its  scarlet  blossom  dominated  all  other  trees,  and  in 
the  background  was  the  old  Spanish  Cathedral,  its 
dome  covered  with  buzzard  birds,  and  its  tower 
full  of  bells.  I  could  have  spent  hours  at  my  win- 
dow, feasting  my  eyes  on  this  scene.  I  had  to 
share  this  one  and  only  precious  room  with  Louise 
and  Dick.  We  had  planned  to  stay  for  two  nights. 
I  have  come  to  Mexico  in  the  same  frame  of  mind 
with  which  I  went  to  Russia,  prepared  for  every 
adventure  and  discomfort.  At  bedtime  I  said  to 
Louise:  "I  suppose  we  ought  to  draw  lots  as  to 
which  sleeps  with  Dick,  but  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  that  you  can  have  him!"  (I  have  vivid  recol- 
lections of  the  terrible  kicks  administered  by  Dick 
all  through  the  only  night  I  ever  spent  with  him!) 
Louise  replied  that  she  would  bear  it  and  we  went 

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to  bed  congratulating  ourselves  that  we  had  coin- 
cided with  a  storm  at  Vera  Cruz,  which  was  less 
unpleasant  than  being  baked  alive.  I  had  not  been 
long  asleep,  however,  when  the  rain  leaking 
through  the  roof  over  my  bed  waked  me,  I  pushed 
my  bed  into  another  part  of  the  room.  No  escape, 
however,  before  long  the  entire  ceiling  was  drip- 
ping, and  there  was  only  one  small  dry  corner  of 
the  room.  Into  this  corner  I  pushed  Dick  and 
Louise.  Then,  barefooted,  I  paddled  about  on  the 
streaming  floor,  rescuing  luggage  and  clothes. 
Finally  I  retired  to  my  damp  bed,  wrapped  in  my 
rug,  and  with  an  umbrella  open  over  my  head.  It 
seemed  but  a  few  minutes  before  the  dawn  broke 
and  with  it,  awakened  all  the  buzzards  and  all  the 
blackbirds  in  the  square.  They  shrieked,  they 
whistled,  they  sang  shrill  tunes  like  noisy  canaries. 
It  was  as  if  one  had  one's  bed  in  the  parrot  house 
at  the  Zoo,  and  the  parrot  house  leaked.  Dick 
thoroughly  awakened,  got  the  giggles  and  my  irri- 
tation accentuated  the  absurdity.  What  a  night! 
No  further  sleep  being  possible,  we  dressed  and 
went  down  to  breakfast  on  the  sidewalk  under  the 
arcade.  Here  native  boys  came  hovering  round 
with  their  shoe-shining  paraphernalia,  which  is 
quite  a  flourishing  trade.  Vendors  with  baskets 
full  of  native  wares,  postcard  sellers  and  news- 
paper boys;  blind  beggars  and  deformities,  all 
were  part  of  our  kaleidescopic  "entourage," 
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besides  the  sombrero'd  Mexicans  of  every  type, 
who  walked  by  us  in  the  street,  as  spectacular  as 
any  passing  show. 

At  the  neighboring  and  opposite  tables,  men 
stared  glad-eyed  and  even  signaled:  one  hardly 
dared  to  let  one's  eyes  rest  anywhere  except  on  the 
birds  in  the  trees! 

When  the  rain  cleared  we  engaged  a  Ford  car 
and  told  the  driver  we  would  start  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour;  but  when  we  were  ready  to  start  our  car 
was  surrounded  by  a  crowd  and  a  policeman  ar- 
rested the  driver  and  led  him  away.  Another  was 
substituted.  My  Spanish  being  nil,  I  was  unable 
to  ascertain  what  had  happened.  Our  drive  was 
rather  like  going  across  country,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  realized  the  value  of  a  Ford  car. 
No  other  car  could  or  would  have  driven  through 
the  ponds  and  streams,  over  the  boulders  and 
rocks  and  negotiated  the  bumps  and  ruts  that  we 
did!  This  native  drove  his  car  as  though  it  were 
accustomed  to  go  anywhere ;  in  fact,  there  was  no 
direction  that  one  pointed  to,  that  he  was  not  pre- 
pared to  go  to,  road  or  no  road!  No  wonder  we 
finally  punctured  a  tire,  but  happily  we  were  near 
home  and  so  walked.  At  tea  time  the  two  reliable 
Americans  fetched  us  and  we  went  by  tramway  to 
the  bathing  beach.  The  waves  were  high  and  the 
sea  was  warm  and  only  the  Americans  knew  how 
to   swim.    Dick  got  wildly  excited   and   almost 

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panic-stricken  as  each  big  wave  rose  up  and  came 
towards  him.  That  night,  my  bed  being  soaking 
wet  from  the  drips  that  had  fallen  all  day,  I  threw 
off  the  mattress  and  slept  soundly  wrapped  in  my 
rug  on  the  bare  wire  springs;  also  it  was  cooler. 

Wednesday,  June  29,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

Those  blighted  birds  in  the  square  waked  us 
again  before  5  A.M.,  so  I  got  up  immediately,  and 
we  were  down  on  the  sidewalk  at  5 130  having 
breakfast.  Later  we  were  joined  by  our  Americans 
and  together  drove  to  the  station  for  the  6:20  A.M. 
Mexican  train.  On  arrival  we  were  refused  a 
ticket,  being  informed  by  the  office  that  already 
more  tickets  had  been  sold  than  they  had  accom- 
modations for.  We  pushed  by  the  barrier,  and 
boarded  the  train,  it  was  obvious  we  must  get  there 
somehow.  Many  of  our  fellow  shipmates  were  on 
the  train  and  kindly  offered  to  take  turns,  sharing 
their  seats.  Heaps  of  people  were  standing.  The 
compartment  was  like  a  tramcar,  even  with  the 
luxury  of  a  seat  it  was  not  a  15-hour  journey  that 
promised  any  comfort.  As  the  day  grew  hotter,  I 
found  the  best  place  was  to  sit  on  the  platform  of 
the  last  coach  and  dangle  my  feet  overboard.  Dick 
and  Louise  joined  me.  Three  or  four  men  stood 
up  behind  us  and  on  the  steps  of  the  platform  right 
and  left  sat  armed  guards,  rifle  in  hand.  Rumor 
had  it  that  the  train  had  been  known  to  be  at- 
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tacked  by  bandits  in  lonely  places.  Most  of  the 
time  our  armed  guard  slept,  and  one  of  them  fell 
off,  but  run  as  he  would  he  could  not  catch  up 
the  train.  We  climbed  and  climbed  up  through 
the  mountains  to  a  height  of  10,000  feet  until  we 
were  cloud  enveloped — the  train  couldn't  go  very 
fast,  and  some  of  the  youths  of  the  party  did  actu- 
ally jump  off  and  run  behind.^ 

During  the  first  part  of  our  journey  we  passed 
through  a  chaotic  riot  of  tropical  vegetation. 
Everything  grew  everywhere,  under  giant  trees 
were  dense  bushes,  and  on  the  tree  trunks  and 
branches  grew  countless  other  species  of  plant,  as 
though  a  gardener  had  grafted  one  onto  another 
in  profuse  experiment.  There  were  banana,  cocoa- 
nut,  coffee,  maize  and  so  many  new  and  bright- 
colored  flowers  that  I  was  bewildered.  There  is 
not  a  flower  or  a  fruit  of  any  color  or  shape  that 
any  Futurist  could  invent,  that  does  not  grow  in 
Mexico.  We  stopped  at  wayside  stations,  where 
the  villages  were  built  of  grass  huts  and  the  natives 
in  bright  colors  were  like  flowers  among  the  green. 
Mexicans  on  bucking  ponies,  over  which  they  had 
perfect  control,  were  all  part  of  what  seemed  al- 
most a  stage  scene.  As  we  climbed  higher,  how- 
ever, the  luxuriant  vegetation  ceased,  but  the  ef- 
fects of  sunlight  and  shadow  as  we  looked  down 
from  the  damp  clouds  onto  the  sunlit  valleys  be- 
low, really  was  grandiose.   After  that  it  becam 

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cold  we  were  forced  to  return  inside  the  coach. 
For  hours  we  endured  closed  windows,  over- 
crowded seats,  smoking  and  spitting,  and  eventu- 
ally the  smell  of  primitive  oil  lamps.  Outside  one 
looked  for  miles  and  hours  onto  plains  covered 
with  cactus.  One's  back  ached  and  one's  head  was 
heavy,  but  no  sleep  was  possible,  and  there  was  no- 
where to  rest  one's  head.  Dick  sat  on  my  knee, 
and  was  astonishingly  good.  I  have,  in  fact,  never 
known  him  so  before.  He  seemed  to  realize  that 
our  nerves  were  as  tense  as  possible.  He  stroked 
my  cheek  and  said  he  could  see  by  my  eyes  that  I 
was  tired,  he  was  caressing  and  gentle.  .  .  .  Oh! 
those  miles  and  miles  of  cactus,  how  one  grew  to 
hate  them,  and  the  Chinaman  who  would  spit  and 
the  Mexican  who  would  stare,  and  the  baby  who 
would  cry,  and  the  man  who  would  smoke  a  cigar, 
and  the  woman  who  would  close  the  last  window! 
At  8:30  P.M.  the  lights  of  Mexico  City  pro- 
claimed our  journey  ended,  and  just  in  time,  for 
there  comes  at  last  a  moment  when  one's  courage 
and  sense  of  adventure  just  crumple  and  one  has 
to  cry.  I  was  terribly  near  it,  when  our  American 
friends  came  and  joined  us.  I  declare  if  there 
had  been  more  room  I  would  have  laid  my  head 
on  the  shoulder  of  one.  They  were  gallant  to  the 
end,  and  saw  us  safely  installed  in  the  Imperial 
Hotel,  before  saying  good-bye,  and  then:  We 
slept,  we  slept,  we  slept.  .  .  . 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

Thursday,  June  30,  192 1.    Mexico  City. 

We  awoke,  very  late,  in  a  town  that  is  wide 
avenued,  full  of  motors,  and  disappointingly  civil- 
ized. The  civilization  may  be  only  skin  deep,  and 
may  not  extend  beyond  the  town  limits,  who 
knows  .  .  .?  But  for  people  who  looked  for  and 
hoped  for  something  primitive,  disordered  and 
tropical,  to  find  order,  dullness  and  coolness,  is 
ridiculous.  Louise  and  I,  comparing  notes  as  to 
our  expectations  and  realizations,  simply  laugh. 
Vera  Cruz  wasn't  very  civilized,  and  the  journey 
yesterday  was  as  primitive  as  one  could  look  for, 
but  Mexico  City  appears  to  be  cosmopolitan  and 
up  to  date.  In  the  morning,  on  our  way  back  from 
shopping,  we  passed  through  a  very  pretty  little 
garden,  called  "Alameda,"  and  there  a  band  was 
playing.  "Who'd  work?"  said  Louise,  as  we 
seated  ourselves  on  comfortable  chairs  under  an 
awning,  with  matting  under  our  feet.  Certainly 
the  people  could  have  worked,  who  preferred,  like 
us,  to  loaf  and  listen!  Dick  sailed  an  improvised 
boat  in  a  fountain  pond.  The  man  who  sat  oppo- 
site came  and  sat  next  to  us,  otherwise  all  was 
harmony. 

After  lunch  we  drove  to  Chapultepec,  a  more 
beautiful  or  well-cared-for  park  I  have  never  seen. 
It  positively  outdoes  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  In 
comparison  with  Central  Park,  where  one  is  so  ag- 
gressively over-guarded  by  men  with  whistles,  in 

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spite  of  which  the  place  is  littered  with  paper,  this 
park  is  as  neat  as  a  private  garden.  Everyone 
seems  to  behave  with  taste  and  decorum,  and  there 
seem  to  be  no  guards  to  keep  order.  One  or  two 
mounted  police  in  gray  and  red,  wearing  large  som- 
breros and  riding  gaily  caparisoned  ponies,  added 
to  the  picturesqueness.  We  hired  a  boat  for  an 
hour  and  rowed  on  the  lake,  but  the  effort  of  row- 
ing made  one's  breath  short,  and  one's  heart  did  a 
variety  of  irregular  movements.  I  had  heard  that 
the  high  altitude  effected  one  this  way.  On  a  hill 
close  to  us  stood  the  castle  of  Chapultepec,  with  its 
distant  background  of  mountains.  A  beautiful  sit- 
uation to  live  in,  but  the  most  unenviable  of  posi- 
tions. I  think  I  would  prefer  almost  any  fate  on 
earth  except  that  of  President  of  Mexico.  Like 
the  Roman  Rulers,  one  after  another,  doomed  to 
destruction. 

Friday,  July  i,  1921.    Mexico. 

In  the  morning  I  delivered  my  letter  of  introduc- 
tion from  Mr.  Fletcher  to  Mr.  Summerlin.  In 
the  afternoon  I  was  asked  to  go  and  see  him.  He 
at  once  handed  me  a  cable  which  had  arrived  the 
day  before,  and  addressed  to  me  under  his  care. 
It  contained  news  that  I  read  and  re-read  before 
my  numbed  brain  could  take  it, — the  announce- 
ment of  Aunt  Jennie's*  death.    I  tried  to  pull  my- 

*Lady  Randolph  Churchill — Mother  of  Winston  Churchill. 

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self  together  and  talk  of  things  Mexican  with  Mr. 
Summerlin,  who  was  very  charming  to  me,  but 
the  weight  of  my  news  was  overwhelming.  I 
drove  out  to  San  Angel  Inn,  in  the  country  with 
Dick  and  we  had  tea  in  the  pattio,  where  blue 
plumbago  and  magenta  bougamvillia  minged  to- 
gether from  the  verandah  to  the  roof.  Dick  played 
in  a  fountain.  It  was  wondrously  peaceful,  and 
good  to  look  at. 

I  have  left  England  to  "make  good"  and  of  all 
the  people  I  love,  and  who  love  me,  and  whose 
eyes  have  followed  me  across  the  sea,  Aunt  Jennie's 
were  among  the  keenest.  I  would  have  liked  to  do 
my  best  work  for  her  appreciation.  Her  praise, 
her  approval,  her  advice,  her  love  was  something 
that  counted.  The  loss  of  her,  and  the  contempla- 
tion of  years  to  face  without  ever  seeing  her  again 
is  difficult  to  grasp.  I  cannot  imagine  returning 
to  an  England  that  does  not  contain  her.  My  sec- 
ond mother,  my  loyallest  friend.  She  had  the  rar- 
est qualities,  and  the  largest  heart,  which  made  her 
loveable.  She  was  "worldly-wise,"  yet  neither 
wise  nor  worldly.  She  loved  passionately  and  gen- 
erously as  her  heart  dictated,  and  always  she  gave 
out  more  than  she  received.  She  married  three 
times,  and  twice  in  a  wayward  and  unworldly  fash- 
ion. Partly  what  I  am  today  is  the  result  of  her 
early  influence.  I  used  to  admire  and  love  her  in 
a  rather  awe-struck  way  when  I  was  a  child,  and 

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when  I  was  17  I  believed  she  could  do  no  wrong. 
Her  judgment  seemed  to  me  infallible.  In  those 
days  we  lived  exactly  opposite,  in  great  Cumber- 
land Place,  London,  and  I  used  to  sit  with  her 
every  morning  and  while  she  dressed  I  was  made 
to  read  the  leading  articles  in  the  TIMES.  I  was 
very  shy,  having  ran  wild  for  years  in  Ireland. 
Aunt  Jennie  took  the  raw  and  untamed  girl,  taught 
her  how  to  do  her  hair;  made  her  put  on  her 
clothes  with  care,  and  scolded  her  into  a  civilized 
woman.  She  used  to  say  to  me:  "While  you  are 
dressing,  put  your  mind  to  it,  and  do  the  best  you 
can  with  yourself.  After  that,  never  give  your 
appearance  another  thought."  She  would  scold  me 
unmercifully  if  I  did  not  make  an  effort  to  talk  to 
whatever  man  I  sat  next  to  at  luncheon  or  dinner: 
"Remember  you  are  asked,  not  for  your  amuse- 
ment, but  to  contribute  something  to  the  party.  .  .  ." 
The  letters  of  Lord  Chesterfield  to  his  son  were  as 
nothing  compared  to  the  worldly  advice  of  Jennie 
Churchill  to  her  niece.  She  frightened  me,  but  I 
loved  her,  because  I  knew  she  was  just,  and  I  knew 
she  was  right.  For  years  she  took  me  out  into  the 
world  and  did  with  me  the  best  she  could.  It  be- 
came an  accepted  thing  with  me,  that  she  had  all 
the  attention,  and  her  admirers  were  kind  to  me  on 
her  account.  I  used  to  wonder  whether  I  would 
have  to  wait  to  attain  her  age  in  order  to  have  my 
own  success.     I  never  resented  it,  my  admiration 

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(Photograph   by    Hoppe) 


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for  her  was  too  great,  I  just  took  for  granted  that 
things  were  so.  In  later  years  my  awesome  fear 
ebbed  away,  and  we  became  confidential  friends  on 
a  mature  basis.  I  seemed  after  marriage  to  catch 
up  to  her,  and  in  my  widowhood  we  had  a  perfect 
understanding.  There  was  nothing  then  that  we 
would  not  tell  one  another  and  I  bowed  to  her  su- 
perior experience  and  judgment.  Her  under- 
standing, her  tolerance  and  her  love  had  made  her 
very  precious.  When  I  returned  from  Russia,  she 
was  my  loyallest  friend,  and  championed  me.  My 
last  evening  before  sailing  for  New  York,  was  a  re- 
union de  famille  at  her  house  for  dinner.  After 
dinner  she  took  me  aside  and  talked  to  me  inti- 
mately, and  advisedly.  She  made  me  promise  that 
if  I  did  not  like  being  in  America  I  was  to  return 
at  once,  "You  have  a  loving,  a  loyal  and  a  powerful 
family,"  she  said,  and  hoped  I  was  not  going  to  be 
lonely  or  unhappy  in  a  strange  new  world  which 
she  had  known  and  left.  At  eight  the  next  morn- 
ing she  surprised  me  by  being  at  the  station  to  wish 
me  godspeed,  I  was  deeply  touched,  but  saddened 
by  a  rather  wistful  look  in  her  face.  God  bless  her, 
she  was  a  splendid  independent  woman.  She  dis- 
regarded public  opinion,  and  her  own  was  very 
strong.  She  was  beautiful  and  brilliant;  never 
banal,  never  conventional,  always  a  great  personal- 
ity. 

She  wrote,  as  Mrs.  George  Cornwallis  West,  the 

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memories  of  "Lady  Randolph  Churchill"  ...  no 
one  had  more  material,  or  more  right  to  present 
it.  Hurled  into  the  midst  of  a  political  centre 
from  the  moment  of  her  first  marriage,  she  con- 
tinued to  the  end  the  friend  of  every  Prime  Min- 
ister and  every  Cabinet  Minister;  a  friend  of 
kings,  artists,  writers,  musicians,  a  dominating 
influence  and  a  leader  of  thought  and  taste  in  a 
cosmopolitan  as  well  as  English  society. 

I  prefer  to  think  of  her  forever  at  rest,  beautiful 
and  brilliant  and  wonderful  to  the  end. 

Saturday,  July  2,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

This  morning  we  went  to  see  the  Cathedral.  It 
sounds  banal  enough  but  one  must  see  cathedrals! 
Outside  it  is  very  beautiful  and  imposing,  and 
forms  a  whole  side  of  the  square. 

It  was  completed  in  1525  and  represented  the 
Mother  Church  of  Spain.  Almost  on  the  same 
site  stood  the  ancient  Aztec  Teocali  of  Tlaloc- 
huitzilopochtli,  the  great  pagan  sanctuary,  in  fact, 
the  Cathedral  was  built  to  a  great  extent  out  of 
the  same  stones.  Effacing  the  Cathedral  from  my 
mind,  I  visualize  the  great  pyramidal  Teocali 
with  its  five  stories  each  receding  above  the  other, 
and  its  flights  of  steps  leading  from  terrace  to  ter- 
race, on  the  summit  was  the  great  jasper  sacrificial 
stone.  Before  the  altar  stood  a  colossal  figure  of 
Huitzilopochtli,  the  war  god  and  the  deity.    Here 

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burned  the  undying  fires,  which  meant  as  much  to 
the  Aztecs  as  did  the  Vestal  flame  to  ancient  Rome. 
It  is  amazing  to  recall  that  as  late  as  i486  the 
dedication  of  the  Great  Teocali  was  celebrated  by 
human  sacrifices  to  the  extent  of  20,000.     One  of 
the  most  dramatic  episodes  in  the  World's  History 
must  have  been  the  battle  between  the  soldiers  led 
by  Cortez  and  those  of  Montezuma,  a  thousand 
combatants  fought  on  this  aerial  summit  in  full 
view  of  the  whole  city.    The  battle  raged  for  three 
hours    and   many   of    the   combatants    here  were 
hurled  from  the  height,  Cortez  himself  narrowly 
escaping    this    fate.    The    victorious     Spaniards 
rushed  at  the  God  Huitzil,  and  with  shouts  of  tri- 
umph dragged  him  from  his  niche  and  tumbled 
him  over  the  edge  to  the  horror  of  the  onlooking 
Aztecs.     Thus  ended  Paganism  and  Christianity 
was  established.    In  the  place  of  the  great  Teocali, 
the  Spaniards  built  a  Cathedral.    As  a  substitute 
for  human  sacrifices,  they  introduced  the  Inquisi- 
tion.    Instead  of  Huitzil,  Christ  in  crude  plaster, 
gaudily  painted,  with  imitation  blood,  and  a  bevy 
of   life-sized  Saints    and  Angels,   some   of   them 
kneeling  on  billows  of  plaster  clouds,  surrounded 
by  bleeding  hearts  (imitation)  and  sham  flowers, 
now  reign  supreme.    This  is  the  setting  in  which 
we  found  ourselves  on  entering  and  by  chance  we 
happened  upon  a  wedding  ceremony!    The  organ 
was  abominable  and  the  singing.     All  the  poor 

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women  with  their  babies  had  followed  in  after  the 
bride  to  witness  this  ever  appealing  ceremony! 
Most  of  the  babies  were  dressed  in  a  rather  bright 
crude  pink,  the  worst  possible  color  for  a  dark  yel- 
low baby!  Dick,  who  had  never  seen  a  wedding 
before,  asked  me  in  an  awestruck  whisper  as  the 
bridal  party  stood  in  a  row  at  the  top  of  the  aisle: 
"Is  she  marrying  the  woman  next  to  her?" 

"No,  the  man  .  .  ." 

"Did  you  marry  Daddy  like  that?" 

"Yes—" 

and  then  incredulously:  "Dressed  like  that — ?" 

"Yes . . ." 

He  sidled  up  to  me,  and  then  asked  shyly: 

"Think  you'll  ever  marry  again?" 

"No—" 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  like  that, — wish  I'd  seen  you 
marry  Daddy." 

If  I'd  told  him  a  second  marriage  isn't  privileged 
to  wear  white,  he  probably  would  realize  it  wasn't 
worth  doing! 

At  midday  I  received  the  visit  of  the  sister  and 
niece  of  Mr.  N.  to  whom  I  had  delivered  a  letter 
of  introduction.  It  is  rather  fun  knowing  real 
Mexicans  and  getting  their  point  of  view.  I  didn't 
tell  them  and  they  didn't  seem  to  know  that  I  had 
only  met  their  kinsman  once  and  I  wondered  what 
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they  did  think.  In  the  afternoon  they  fetched  me 
for  a  drive,  the  car  was  owned  and  driven  by  the 
fiance  of  the  girl.  We  drove  out  into  the  country 
and  were  caught  in  the  fiercest  rain-storm.  The 
car  had  only  a  hood  and  I  had  only  a  cape.  One 
was  frozen  to  the  marrow.  They  took  me  to  tea  at 
the  Reforma  Club  at  Chapultepec,  a  tennis  club 
organized  chiefly  by  the  English  Colony.  It  looked 
truly  English,  and  the  cold  and  the  damp  made 
one  feel  as  though  in  England.  The  English 
women  whom  I  did  not  meet  but  looked  at,  seemed 
to  be  of  that  type  that  is  neither  interesting  nor 
decorative. — One  or  two  Mexican  girls  I  was  in- 
troduced to,  as  "my  uncle's  friend.  .  .  ."  It  seems  to 
me  I  might  be  explained  to  strangers  in  various 
ways,  but  "my  uncle's  friend"  is  a  fame  that  is 
new  to  me. 

Sunday,  July  3,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

The  4th  of  July  was  celebrated  today.  I  sup- 
pose on  account  of  its  being  Sunday.  There  was 
a  gardenfete  at  a  place  called  "Tivoli."  The  Presi- 
dent was  supposed  to  come;  but  of  course  he  did 
not,  nor  ever  intended  to,  for  as  long  as  the  U.  S. 
will  not  recognize  his  government,  he  will  not  rec- 
ognize the  U.  S.  national  holiday.  Mr.  Summer- 
lin  and  Colonel  Miller  and  all  the  high-hatted  and 
uniformed  diplomats  of  various  nations  were  wait- 
ing to  receive  him.    Instead,  the  press  kodaks  had 

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to  comfort  themselves  with  the  belated  but  smil- 
ing Minister  Pani  of  Foreign  Affairs!  With 
great  ceremony  they  paraded  round  the  ground 
in  procession  and  the  band  played  every  conceiv- 
able Sousa  March.  I  never  realized  how  utterly 
unendurable  civilized  American  music  is  .  .  . 
I  mean,  not  to  include  the  jazz  and  the  coon 
music,  which  has  great  character  and  charm.  But 
there  are  things  like  "Yankee-Doodle"  that  just 
make  one  curl  up.  With  a  fictitious  attempt  at 
gaiety,  I  watched  thh>  celebration  of  the  defeat  of 
England.  Dick  enjoyed  it,  he  bought  bags  of  con- 
fetti, and  realized  for  the  first  time  the  full  joy  of 
being  able  to  throw  handfulls  of  something  straight 
in  a  person's  face.    It  was  a  lovely  game. 

Monday,  July  4,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

My  Mexican  acquaintances,  mother  and  daugh- 
ter, took  me  to  tea  with  some  friends  of  theirs,  who 
lived  in  a  really  lovely  house,  almost  palatial.  The 
daughter  of  the  house  was  intelligent  and  spoke 
perfect  English.  I  had  a  long  talk  with  her  and 
learnt  something  of  the  Mexican  aristocracy's 
view  point:  She  said  that  decent  and  honest  peo- 
ple in  Mexico  try  to  keep  out  of  politics,  and  not  to 
meet  the  politicians  or  the  Generals.  Otherwise 
they  are  persecuted  by  whatever  Government  fol- 
lows for  having  even  been  friends  with  the  Gov- 
ernment that  has  been  overthrown.  The  politicians 
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of  whatever  regime  have  always  been  self-inter- 
ested. Their  object  is  to  make  as  much  as  they  can 
while  their  Government  lasts.  Against  this  there 
is  no  remedy.  If  the  President  tried  to  enforce 
rigorous  measures  against  graft,  etc.,  he  would  be 
turned  upon  and  rent  asunder.  Referring  to  Gen- 
eral Obregon,  she  said  he  was  pretty  well  acknowl- 
edged by  every  one  to  be  honest  and  purposeful, 
the  best  out  of  15,000,000  people,  but  "thieves"  as 
she  expressed  it  helped  him  to  become  President, 
and  he  dare  not  get  rid  of  them  for  that  reason,  "I 
suppose  he  is  in  honor  bound  to  stand  by  them," 
I  said — "Not  at  all."  She  contradicted,  "but  if  he 
dismisses  them  they  would  plot  against  him.  .  .  . 
His  only  way  is  to  kill  them."  (I  felt  I  was  prob- 
ing this  skin-deep  civilization!!). 

Everyone  seems  to  live  in  great  uncertainty.  "In 
the  Revolution"  (I  did  not  understand  which  of 
the  many!)  people's  houses  and  farms  and  motors, 
etc.,  were  taken  away  from  them.  A  few  of  them 
have  been  inadequately  paid  for  since,  and  some 
farms  have  been  returned  to  their  owners,  but  in 
such  a  dilapidated  condition  as  to  make  them  al- 
most hopeless. 

"If  anything  happened  to  General  OrTregon, 
things  would  be  far  worse  .  .  .  there  would  be 
chaos.  ..."  I  was  told.  A  Revolution  is  impos- 
sible unless  the  Indians  are  with  it.  They  are  very 
easily  led,  and  always  side  with  the  richest  Gen- 

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eral.  I  was  told  a  good  deal  more,  but  it  repre- 
sented the  average  bourgeois  point  of  view, — so 
ready  to  criticize,  so  inaccurate  in  its  details. 

Tuesday,  July  5,  192 1.    Mexico  City. 

Today  is  Review  day.  It  happens  once  a  month. 
First  the  Firemen  with  a  band  marched  down  the 
Passo  de  La  Reforma,  past  our  Hotel.  Then  some 
soldiers  and  finally  quantities!  of  police.  They 
were  all  smartened  up,  clean  and  white-spatted 
for  the  occasion.  I  rushed  forward  to  photograph 
them,  which  seemed  to  amuse  them,  and  one  officer 
on  horseback  purposely  made  his  horse  rear  for 
my  benefit.  People  in  the  street  seemed  not  to  take 
the  slightest  interest,  only  a  few  loafers  or  foreign- 
ers looked  on,  and  the  usual  crowd  of  women  fruit 
sellers,  who  sold  pulque  (the  national  drink,  made 
from  the  juice  of  cactus)  to  the  men  when  they 
halted.  The  streets  are  conspicuous  at  all  times 
by  their  absence  of  well  dressed  or  prosperous 
looking  people.  Except  for  some  business  men, 
the  people  look  nearly  as  dilapidated  as  those  in 
Moscow.  The  shop  windows  contain  the  ugliest 
clothes.  I  wonder  what  the  Mexican  woman  does 
when  she  wants  a  new  dress. 

This  afternoon,  Dick  not  being  well  enough  to 
walk,  we  drove  to  Chapultepec  Park.  By  lucky 
chance  the  driver  spoke  English.  He  told  us  we 
could  see  parts  of  the  Castle,  and  drove  us  up  to  the 
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Hill  summit.  We  wandered  around  rather  stu- 
pidly, there  was  no  guide,  and  rumor  has  it  that 
one  can  only  see  the  Castle  if  one  has  a  special  let- 
ter from  one's  consul.  Presently  two  young  men  ap- 
peared, officials  apparently,  and  they  watched  us 
and  seemed  to  take  an  interest.  Of  course,  in  the 
end,  although  they  could  speak  nothing  but  Span- 
ish, we  were  carrying  on  some  kind  of  understand- 
ing. They  took  us  from  terrace  to  terrace,  higher 
and  higher,  until  finally  we  were  in  a  fountained 
flower  garden  on  the  roof.  They  gathered  bunches 
of  roses  and  carnations,  pansies  and  violets  for  us, 
insisted  on  photographing  us  with  our  own  kodaks 
and  finally  took  us  up  the  spiral  stairs  to  the  top- 
most tower,  where  the  view  of  the  town  below  and 
the  plain  and  the  mountains  all  round  us  was  stag- 
gering. They  smiled  with  satisfaction  at  our  de- 
light. On  the  way  down  we  were  shown  some  rooms 
and  here  our  incoherent  friends  linked  us  on  to  a 
guide,  who  was  showing  some  Americans  over  the 
Castle.  I  hear  that  Obregon  prefers  to  live  in  a 
cottage  adjoining,  and  small  wonder:  The  Castle 
inside  is  as  ugly  as  it  is  possible  to  be.  The  Chinese 
room,  presented  by  the  Chinese  Emperor  to  Presi- 
dent Diaz,  is  terrible.  Only  one  bed  room,  I  think 
it  was  Maximilian's  Queen's,  had  some  quite  nice 
"Bulle"  wardrobes.  Pointed  out  as  of  special 
interest  was  a  sitting  room,  all  done  up  in  pink: 
"For  Miss  Root.  ..."  I  am  ashamed  of  my  ignor- 

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ance  in  not  knowing  anything  about  this  lady  or 
her  part  in  Mexican  History. 

I  really  felt  speechless  over  the  ugliness  of  the 
interior.  There  is  nothing  to  recommend  Chapul- 
tepec  Castle  except  its  position  and  its  view.  The 
imitation  Pompeian  decoration  on  the  terrace  walls 
are  as  bad  as  the  "Mexican  Work"  which  decorates 
the  banquet  room.  The  entrance  gates,  with  bronze 
soldiers  on  the  pillars  are  enough  to  warn  one  of 
what  is  in  store,  where  decoration  is  concerned. 
However,  it  was  well  worth  the  time  to  see  the 
view  and  we  spent  a  charming  afternoon,  thanks 
to  our  unknown  friends.  In  the  evening  I  was 
discovered  by  the  Press !  Interviewers  and  photog- 
raphers recalled  early  days  in  New  York.  But  I 
mean  to  leave  Mexico  City — climate  means  more 
to  me  than  anything  else  in  the  World.  I  cannot 
feel  lonely  or  ill  if  I  am  in  a  place  of  flowers  and 
sun.  Such  places  exist  quite  near,  we  are  wasting 
our  precious  days  in  the  cold  grayness  of  Mexico 
City.  We  came  with  only  tropical  clothes  and  it 
is  the  rainy  season !  I  want  to  go  away.  I  am  only 
waiting  for  Dick  to  get  well. 

Wednesday,  July  6,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

At  10  A.M.  we  went  to  Guadalupe  by  tram  car. 
It  took  about  twenty  minutes.  The  Church,  an- 
other of  those  magnificent  edifices  erected  by  the 
Spaniards,  dates  back  to  the  16th  Century,  and 
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was  in  fact  built  about  ten  years  after  the  Conquest 
of  Mexico.  This  "Shrine  of  the  Virgin"  is  the 
"Mecca"  of  the  Mexicans.  It  is  the  centre  every 
year  of  great  festivals,  and  is  supposed  to  be  en- 
dowed with  miraculous  powers.  The  superstitious 
Indian  regards  this  divine  Virgin  as  a  manifesta- 
tion of  the  primitive  "diosa"  (Goddess)  they 
once  worshipped,  and  on  December  12th  of  every 
year  they  celebrate  their  "Fiesta"  in  their  own  way, 
unhampered  by  priests.  At  the  big  entrance  door, 
as  I  went  in,  a  beggar  was  sitting.  He  looked  like 
a  sculptured  "Goya"  carved  in  walnut  wood.  Ema- 
ciated, old,  expressionless,  immovable  with  an  out- 
stretched wizened  hand  and  a  bandage  round  his 
brow,  he  looked  the  picture  of  passive  misery.  I 
photographed  him.  Outside  the  Church  was  a 
whole  encampment  of  natives  selling  the  usual 
cheap  rosaries,  medals  and  holy  cakes,  called  "Gon- 
dites  of  the  Virgin"  (Little  fat  ones  of  the  Virgin). 

We  were  the  only  tourists  and  the  whole  town 
seemed  to  be  under  canvas,  selling  fruits,  knick- 
knacks  and  pottery — There  seemed  to  be  a  world  of 
sellers  and  nobody  buying. 

The  Chapel  of  the  Well  is  another  building  that 
can  rival  any  in  Latin  Europe.  It  is  exquisite  with 
its  domes  of  blue  and  yellow  tiles.  But  we  should 
have  come  here  on  a  fiesta  or  a  Sunday  and  seen 
the  fervent  Indian  crowds.  On  an  ordinary  day 
there  is  not  much  movement. 

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Thursday,  July  7,  192 1.    Mexico  City. 

A  lovely  sunshiny  morning  (one  has  learned  to 
appreciate  that!),  and  we  boarded  a  tram  at  the 
Zocolo  and  went  to  Zochimilco.  It  took  an  hour. 
We  went  as  fast  as  a  train  across  long  straight 
stretches  of  plain.  A  big  barefooted  Indian  in- 
sisted on  talking  to  me,  rapidly  and  at  great  length, 
in  spite  of  my  repeated  "non  entiendo."  Perhaps 
he  thought  I  was  only  pretending  not  to  under- 
stand, which  is  true,  for  I  gathered  he  belonged  to 
Zochimilco,  owned  a  boat  on  the  "lago"  and 
wished  to  be  our  cicerone!  As  I  knew  nothing 
about  him  and  dislike  persistency,  I  turned  a  cold 
shoulder  upon  him. 

Our  tram  took  us  across  the  plain  and  close  up 
to  the  mountain  feet.  Arrived  at  the  region  of 
lakes  and  floating  islands  and  with  no  one  to  turn 
to  for  information,  the  only  strangers  among  a 
world  of  Indians,  I  humbly  followed  the  persistent 
guide.  He  had  an  ugly  but  kindly  face,  and  such 
a  clean  white  smock  that  it  gave  us  confidence  in 
him.  We  followed  him  for  some  way  along  a  nar- 
row cobbled  way,  where  wide  eyed  Indian  girls 
wrapped  around  in  blue  shawls,  looked  at  us  curi- 
ously. After  awhile  I  stopped  dead,  and  intimated 
that  I  wanted  to  find  the  lakes.  Our  guide  looked 
hurt,  even  uglier  for  a  moment,  and  I  understood 
him  to  assure  us  he  was  "secure" — and  that  we 
need  have  no  anxiety.  A  blind  man,  young,  bare- 
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legged,  his  head  held  high,  as  all  blind  men  do, 
came  tapping  after  us  with  his  stick.  They  always 
give  me  the  creeps.  I  want  to  run  in  a  panic, 
when  I  hear  the  tap-tap.  He  stopped  when  the 
church  bell  sounded  and  taking  his  hat  off,  he  re- 
cited rapid  prayers.  I  wonder  if  he  was  very 
philosophical  about  his  blindness,  or  what  his 
mental  attitude  could  be  towards  his  God.  At  this 
juncture  however,  we  arrived  at  a  canal,  and  our 
guide  led  us  through  a  door-way  into  the  court- 
yard of  a  house  by  the  water  side.  Around  the 
fountain  some  women  were  cleaning  meat.  I  pre- 
pared my  kodak,  but  everyone  melted  away,  and  an 
old  grey-haired  hag  shrieked  at  me!  A  big  man 
loomed  into  the  background.  He  looked  half-bred, 
rather  negroid,  and  had  a  severe  questioning  ex- 
pression. I  made  a  bolt  for  the  boat!  This  was 
a  species  of  punt,  with  poles  garlanded,  and  an 
awning  overhead,  made  of  a  faded  Mexican  flag. 
It  was  crude  and  picturesque.  In  a  moment  we 
were  under  way  and  being  punted  noiselessly, 
along  the  canal  which  joins  the  lakes.  The  small 
poplar-like  trees  that  were  reflected  avenues  in  the 
water,  reminded  me  of  Holland.  The  islands  were 
all  luxuriant  with  flowers,  there  seemed  to  be  acres 
of  carnations,  mixed  with  pansies  and  chrysanthe- 
mums. In  the  water  grew  a  lovely  "aquatic  lily," 
as  our  guide  called  it.  I  have  never  seen  one  like 
it.    The  flower  was  mauve  and  like  a  small  rhodo- 

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dendron.  There  were  yellow  water  lilies  as  well, 
and  arum  lilies  on  the  water's  edge.  As  we  passed 
under  a  weeping  willow,  an  irridescent  humming 
bird  flew  out.  I  had  never  dreamed  of  seing  one 
outside  of  the  Natural  History  Museum.  The 
vision  of  it  crowned  my  day. 

I  lay  lazily  on  the  slanting  prow  of  the  punt,  the 
sun  burnt  down  on  my  back,  and  I  wondered 
whether  one  would  be  content  to  live  all  one's  days 
in  a  boat  drifting  along  somnolently  in  the  sun. 
Dick  more  active,  with  an  improvised  paddle, 
thought  he  was  making  the  boat  go.  Narrow 
canoes  slipped  past  us,  full  to  the  brim  with  scar- 
let carnations.  Our  guide  proved  to  be  efficient 
and  friendly.  He  took  us  to  a  restaurant  on  an 
island,  where  we  had  an  unedible  luncheon,  which 
we  shared  with  about  eight  famished  dogs.  Our 
table  was  under  an  arbor  on  a  bridge  at  the  junc- 
tion of  three  streams.  Nearby  we  landed,  and 
were  shown  an  electric  plant  which  never  interests 
me,  and  a  garden  that  was  enchanting  but  more 
Dutch  than  ever.  Trees  were  clipped  into  bird 
shapes,  and  some  climbing  monkeys.  The  place 
was  dense  with  strange  sad  looking  Indians,  who 
were  digging  out  a  canal.  We  lingered  on  the  lakes 
until  nearly  four  o'clock,  and  then  our  guide,  de- 
voted to  the  end,  insisted  we  should  visit  the  village 
church.  The  doors  were  wide  open,  but  from  the 
brilliant  sun  outside  ones  eyes  had  to  accustom 
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themselves  to  the  dimness  within.  There  were  a 
few  Indian  women  kneeling  on  the  wooden  floor, 
and  some  sort  of  chant  was  going  on.  One  woman 
was  intoning  in  a  shrill  flat  metallic  voice.  The 
crudest  painted  figures  of  the  Christ  dressed  in 
white  muslin  "shorts"  edged  with  lace;  face  and 
body  covered  with  blood ;  hair  black  and  matted : 
legs  emaciated  and  contorted,  stared  out  at  us  from 
every  corner.  Dick  suddenly  exclaimed  in  a  terri- 
fied whisper  "I  must  go — I've  got  to  go — "  and 
made  for  the  sunlight  at  full  speed  with  resonant 
steps.  I  followed  him,  and  out  in  the  court  yard 
was  a  rickety  Crucifix  with  human  legbones  tied 
crossways  on  it.  Louise  commented,  and  Dick 
quick  to  overhear,  asked:  "Are  they  real  bones . . .? 
What  is  a  Crucifix?  What  is  it  for  .  .  .?  Why  .  .  .? 
Tell  me  about  Christ,  please  tell  me,  tell  me  about 
Christ,"  and  as  we  waited  on  a  seat  in  the  Public 
Garden,  for  the  tramway,  Dick  insisted  upon  hear- 
ing the  whole  story  of  Christ.  He  says  his  prayers 
to  God,  and  the  two  have  no  connection  in  his 
mind.  And  now  I  realize  what  Dick's  first  and 
earliest  impression  of  Christ  will  be,  it  is  indeli- 
ble, .  .  . 

Sunday,  July  io,  1921.— Mexico  City. 

I  have  at  last  found  a  friend.  She  is  an  Eng- 
lish woman,  married  to  a  Mexican.  I  met  her  in 
England,  but  never  realized  she  lived  in  Mexico. 

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Great  was  my  surprise  and  pleasure,  when  she 
made  a  sign  of  life  to  me.  Through  her  I  have 
come  in  touch  with  the  English  and  American 
Colony.  They  are  very  nice  to  me,  and  anxious 
to  help  me  to  see  all  there  is  to  see.  My  Anglo- 
Mexican  friends  had  a  picnic  lunch  for  me  today, 
at  their  place  in  Tocubaya  just  outside  the  City. 
It  is  called  "The  Molino"  and  is  the  oldest  mill  in 
America,  North  or  South.  They  hold  the  titles 
of  the  estate  from  the  first  Viceroy. 

Now  they  no  longer  live  there.  The  house  is  de- 
serted and  unfurnished,  the  chapel  bereft  of  its 
old  carved  pews.  The  granaries  are  empty,  one  is 
a  hollow  shell,  the  result  of  a  fire.  Only  in  the 
garden  are  there  signs  of  renaissance.  This  is  the 
result  of  Revolution.  Two  thousand  men  and  1500 
horses  were  billeted  there  for  five  months,  at  the 
time  when  Obregon  came  into  power.  From  all 
descriptions,  they  destroyed  everything  and  took 
what  they  did  not  destroy.  The  trees  were  cut 
down.  Even  the  Church  pews  were  stacked  onto 
a  cart  and  left  when  the  soldiers  left.  "The  best 
Obusson  Chair"  in  which  the  Colonel  used  to  sit, 
and  to  which  he  had  become  attached  was  piled 
onto  the  top  of  the  coke  cart!  Listening  to  all  this, 
I  felt  I  might  be  hearing  the  complaint  of  people 
against  the  Bolsheviks!  It  is  a  point  of  view  that 
I  do  not  often  hear,  and  it  interests  me  as  all  points 
of  view  do.  For  awhile  my  sympathy  was  with 
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these  landowners.  Their  suffering  sounded  so 
futile  and  this  form  of  destruction  helps  none.  The 
working  man  does  not  gain  by  it.  Nothing  is 
arrived  at  except  an  unrest,  a  lack  of  confidence, 
an  apprehension  for  the  future,  and  a  resignation 
of  despair  on  the  part  of  property  owners.  Some 
one  gains:  Presumably  the  individual  who  loots. 
— I  asked,  "What  was  your  ambition  and  your 
aim,  before  all  this  happened  .'..'?"  and  the  an- 
swer was :  "The  ambition  of  every  decent  Mexican, 
to  make  a  lot  of  money  and  go  and  live  abroad." 
Precisely  what  the  Russian  bourgeois  did.  And 
how,  I  asked,  does  Mexico  expect  to  put  her  house 
in  order,  if  the  ambition  of  every  decent  Mexican 
is  to  live  outside  his  country  .  .  .  ? 

The  Conways  were  among  those  invited  to  this 
rather  sumptous  picnic,  which  was  served  elabor- 
ately under  the  pergola  in  the  garden.  The  Con- 
ways  are  English  and  he  is  at  the  head  of  the  elec- 
tric light  and  tramway  company.  The  workshops 
have  been  on  strike  for  sometime,  and  now  the 
tramway  personnel  threaten  to  come  out  m  sym- 
pathy, on  Thursday  next.  Yesterday  there  was  a 
demonstration  of  tramway  workers,  and  they  de- 
posited a  red  flag  on  Mr.  Conway's  doorstep!  The 
situation  is  an  anxious  one,  and  keeps  him  over- 
worked. He  arrived  late  for  lunch  from  a  Gov- 
ernment conference,  and  had  to  leave  again  almost 
immediately  after. 

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While  the  rest  of  the  party  played  poker,  I 
rocked  in  a  perfectly  good  hammock,  and  Dick 
sailed  his  boat  in  a  23  ft.  deep  swimming  tank. 
The  sun  came  out  fitfully,  and  the  day  was  cold. 

The  weather  I  am  assured  is  "unusual"  .  .  .  On 
the  way  home  we  passed  a  trolley  car  full  of  men. 
It  was  at  a  standstill  and  there  seemed  to  be  a 
good-humored  dispute  going  on,  between  one  of 
the  men  in  the  trolley  and  another  who  was  at- 
tempting to  board  it.  The  man  in  the  trolley 
threatened  the  other  by  brandishing  an  iron  bar. 
The  other  disregarding  him  continued  his  efforts 
to  climb.  With  a  resounding  blow,  which  we 
could  hear  above  the  sound  of  our  motor,  the  iron 
bar  smote  the  man  on  the  temple,  so  that  he 
dropped,  stunned  to  the  ground.  A  woman 
screamed  and  ran  to  pick  him  up.  But  he  picked 
himself  up,  and  two  small  rocks  at  the  same  time. 
Our  car  turned  a  corner,  and  the  sequel  was  lost 
to  view. 

"They  hold  life  very  lightly,"  Mrs.  Conway  said 
writh  indifference.  She  has  lived  here  for  some 
years. 

Wednesday,  July  13,  1921. 

Mrs.  Conway  fetched  me  in  the  morning  and 
we  went  to  the  National  Museum.  I  was  in  search 
of  the  War  God  Huitzil,  the  one  that  Cortez  threw 
down  from  the  height  of  the  Teocali  after  the  great 
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fight.  Mr.  Terry's  guide  book  says  it  is  in  the 
Museum,  but  I  could  find  it  nowhere.  Upon  in- 
quiry one  person  said  it  was  in  a  Convent,  another 
that  it  was  built  into  the  walls  of  the  Cathedral,  a 
third  that  it  was  among  the  foundations  of  the  Na- 
tional Palace!  But  if  I  failed  in  discovering  my 
god,  the  accumulation  of  Gods  and  of  sculptured 
stone  contained  in  that  small  gallery  in  the  Na- 
tional Museum  was  a  revelation.  The  moment  I 
walked  in  I  was  amazed.  This  is  work  that  rivets 
one's  attention.  The  people  who  created  these 
things  have  the  right  to  a  very  important  place  in 
art.  The  Aztec  calendar  stone  one  knows  well,  it 
has  been  so  often  reproduced,  but  the  reliefs  on  the 
sacrificial  stones,  are  equally  wonderful, — almost 
pure  Assyrian  in  feeling. 

The  great  flat  screenlike  stone,  representing  the 
goddess  of  the  Moon,  is  full  of  design,  beauty  and 
terror.  They  demanded  much,  these  Gods,  and  I 
imagine  they  were  served  more  out  of  fear  than  of 
love.  Their's  was  a  jealous  god,  and  a  god  of 
vengeance.  There  was  Chauticalli,  the  crouching 
tiger,  demanding  the  votive  offering  of  human 
hearts,  for  which  he  carries  a  cup  sunk  in  his  own 
back. 

Of  all  the  gods,  Chac-Mosl,  the  Lord  of  Life, 
brought  from  Yucatan,  is  the  one  that  is  least 
barbaric.  Almost  it  might  be  the  work  of  a  modern 
archaic  sculptor.     But  through  everything  there 

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runs  a  note  of  deep  tragedy,  of  awful  distress.  The 
people  who  worshipped  Soxhipili,  the  Goddess 
of  Spring  and  Flowers,  who  lifts  up  a  pained 
and  tearstained  face  to  heaven, — are  the  same  peo- 
ple who  today  worship  the  bloodstained  painted 
plaster  figure  of  Christ.  They  are  still  idolators, 
but  they  call  it  Christ  today,  and  their  souls  react 
to  all  the  pain,  and  all  the  blood,  and  all  the  hor- 
ror, that  centuries  ago  was  carved  in  stone,  and 
stained  with  the  blood  of  human  hearts.  Going  to 
that  Museum,  seeing,  even  without  understand- 
ing, has  opened  up  to  me  a  whole  new  interest  in 
the  Mexican  people.  Not  lightly  can  the  world 
dismiss  as  brigands  descendants  of  a  civilization 
that  produced  such  sculpture.  What  was  this  civili- 
zation? The  America  of  the  United  States  has  no 
such  ancestry,  no  such  relics. 

And  who  are  these  people  of  today,  called  Mexi- 
can Indians,  whose  great  dignity  and  impassivity 
and  melancholy  remind  one  of  the  Russian  peas- 
ant? Is  it  explained  in  either  case  by  centuries  of 
oppression?  Perhaps  I  will  understand  a  little 
later  on,  but  at  present  I  am  lost  in  the  mysticism 
of  it. 

At  six  o'clock,  Madame  Malbran,  the  wife  of 
the  Argentine  Minister  and  Madame  de  Bonilla, 
took  me  to  a  reception  given  by  the  Pani's.  He  is 
the  Minister  for  Foreign  Affairs.  After  my  morn- 
ing spent  with  the  gods,  and  the  atmosphere  of 

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Aztec  culture,  it  was  a  strange  contrast  to  go  to 
this  centre  of  political  modernism.  The  party 
might  have  been  in  Paris  or  Rome.  It  was  a  per- 
fectly cosmopolitan  gathering,  and  one  heard  every 
language  around  one.  To  the  accompaniment  of 
a  jazz-band  we  danced  in  two  big  empty  rooms, 
the  walls  of  which  were  covered  with  pictures.  I 
had  already  heard  a  good  deal  of  discussion  and 
comment  about  Alberto  Pani's  collection  of  Old 
Masters,  but  whatever  people  may  say,  and  what- 
ever they  may  be,  they  are  extremely  attractive  pic- 
tures collected  by  some  one  with  a  cultured  eye. 
Here  I  met  a  very  charming  cosmopolitan  Mexican 
called  the  Marquis  de  Guadalupe.  He  had  other 
names,  but  they  were  beyond  my  intelligence.  Gua- 
dalupe, I  can  remember  because  I've  been  to  the 
Cathdral  of  .  .  .  . !  He  talked  like  an  Englishman 
and  said  he  had  been  educated  at  Stonyhurst.  He 
asked  me  if  I  had  seen  any  Mexican  sports, — one 
of  which  is  called  "Haripego"  ...  he  told  me  he 
did  it  himself  and  described  it  to  me:  As  far  as  I 
could  make  out  wild  Mexicans  on  wild  horses  pur- 
sue a  wild  bull,  catch  it  by  the  tail,  and  throw  it! 
My  informant  with  sleek  grey  hair,  and  immacu- 
lately civilized  clothes,  looked  like  anything  but 
a  wild  Mexican.  He  assured  me  he  was  one,  how- 
ever, in  everything  but  appearance.  He  then  went 
up  to  Pani  and  asked  if  they  could  get  up  a  show 
for  me.     There  was  some  discussion  in  Spanish, 


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there  was  nothing  to  do,  I  understood,  but  to  buy 
"a  few  wild  horses  and  some  bulls"  .  .  .  that's  all 
.  .  .!  and  Pani,  turning  to  me,  said  I  had  "but  to 
command!"  So  I  commanded  with  all  possible  en- 
treaty and  was  promised  that  it  should  be  arranged 
as  soon  as  possible  for  next  week.  I  also  expressed 
a  wish  to  climb  up  Popocatapetl,  and  Pani  invited 
me  to  lunch  on  Saturday  to  meet  someone  who  will 
make  it  possible  for  me.  Thus  encouraged  I  rushed 
back  to  the  Hotel  to  find  Mrs.  Conway  with  an 
American  from  Monterey,  waiting  to  take  me  out 
to  dinner.  Afterwards  we  went  and  watched  a 
game  of  Peloto — .  This  is  the  Spanish  name  for 
"ball" — It  was  a  wonderful  game,  a  species  of 
squash  rackets.  The  players  wear  long  narrow 
basket  sheafs  in  which  they  miraculously  catch  the 
ball,  hardly  ever  missing  it.  A  miss  counts  a 
score  for  the  opponent.  The  curious  scoop  shape 
of  the  basket  (I  thought  for  the  first  moment  that 
they  were  hollowed  elephant  tusks!)  enables  them 
to  hurl  the  ball  from  a  great  distance  and  with 
great  force.  It  is  extremely  beautiful  to  watch  and 
is  the  fastest  ball  game  in  the  world.  All  the  while 
a  tremendous  lot  of  betting  goes  on,  and  the  bookies 
in  their  red  caps  make  a  maddening  din  shouting 
the  odds.  The  onlookers,  who  are  more  gamblers 
than  sportsmen,  are  full  of  denunciatory  exclama- 
tions over  bad  play  and  seldom,  if  ever,  apprecia- 
tive of  any  particular  good  stroke.  Played  with- 
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out  any  professional  betting  it  would  be  a  very- 
sporting  game,  as  well  as  a  very  highly  scientific 
one. 

Friday,  July  15,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

Mr.  Conway  having  last  night  at  midnight  set- 
tled his  tramway  strike  to  his  satisfaction,  we 
started  off  at  9  A.M.  in  his  car,  with  a  friend  of 
his  and  made  for  the  Pyramids  of  San  Juan  Teoti- 
huacan.  It  was  very  cold  at  the  start  and  by  the 
time  we  got  to  San  Cristobal  the  sun  was  out  and 
we  stopped  to  photograph  the  monument  to  Mo- 
relos,  the  Mexican  revolutionary  patriot.  He  is 
buried  here,  opposite  his  house.  The  monument, 
which  is  thoroughly  modern,  simple  and  forceful, 
resembles  some  of  the  new  Russian  revolutionary 
sculpture.  Further  on  we  stopped  again  and  looked 
at  a  church.  It  stands  alone  in  a  wind-swept  plain 
which  had  once  been  flooded.  The  floods  had 
raised  the  earth  about  twelve  feet  above  the  orig- 
inal surface,  so  the  carvings  of  the  beautiful  arch- 
way were  low  down  on  the  ground  instead  of  being 
high  up.  It  had  been  an  old  Monastery,  and  the 
cloisters  had  just  recently  been  excavated.  It  is 
amazing  the  way  one  comes  upon  a  perfect  gem 
of  Spanish  Renaissance  architecture,  in  the  wilds 
among  fields  of  cactus.  Sometimes  there  is  not 
even  a  village  in  the  vicinity.    The  inside  of  the 

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church,  with  its  rather  Moorish  vaulted  roof  and 
its  Italian  frescoed  walls  would  have  been  very 
lovely,  but  for  the  usual  additions  that  characterize 
either  the  Spanish  or  the  Mexican  Romanism, 
of  which  I  have  already  complained.  The  one  il- 
lumination to  this  gloom  was  the  quantities  of 
song  birds  inside  the  church  that  flew  about  the 
roof  and  among  the  altars,  fanning  the  noses  of  the 
melancholy  Saints,  whilst  their  songs  reverberated 
through  the  echoing  building.  Outside  the  door, 
an  iridescent  humming-bird  was  sucking  honey 
from  a  wild  flower.  Among  the  loose  stones  of  the 
old  cemetery  wall,  we  picked  up  a  small  terra-cotta 
Aztec  head  of  an  ape.  Beyond  this  place  we  got 
hopelessly  lost  for  some  time  and  wandered 
through  villages  of  which  the  roads  seemed  all 
alike.  These  villages  are  built  of  adobe  or  mud 
bricks,  and  the  houses  are  square,  flat  roofed  and 
windowless.  They  probably  have  been  this  way 
ever  since  Aztec  times.  The  people  we  saw  were 
pure  Indian,  without  any  drop  of  Spanish  blood. 
There  seems  to  be  a  great  deal  of  lameness  and 
blindness,  especially  the  latter,  owing  to  the  preval- 
ence of  disease  among  the  parents.  Infant  mor- 
tality in  Mexico,  is,  I  am  told  on  reliable  authority, 
higher  than  that  of  any  other  country  in  the 
world.  But  to  continue  .  .  .  our  lost  way  was  ex- 
tremely interesting.  Sometimes  our  road  lay 
hemmed  in  on  either  side  by  high  impenetrable 
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hedges,  formed  by  the  organ  cactus,  which  the  In- 
dians plant  to  wall  in  their  gardens  or  farm  yards. 
Hardly  any  of  the  road  was  road  at  all,  it  was 
either  rock  or  stream,  on  a  tract  among  the  plan- 
tations of  the  pulque  cactus.  The  car  was  an  8- 
cylinder  Cadillac.  It  seemed  to  take  anything  com- 
petently and  uncomplainingly.  Never  have  I  seen 
an  owner  so  fatalistic,  or  a  driver  so  calm  under 
adversity.  I  felt  we  must  turn  over  sometimes,  but 
we  did  not,  nor  did  we  stick  in  the  mud,  nor  did 
the  streams  drown  the  machine,  nor  did  the  springs 
break,  nor  did  we  puncture!  When  Mr.  Conway 
pointed  in  a  direction  and  said  to  the  chauffeur: 
"That  is  where  we  want  to  go  .  .  ."  we  went  quite 
regardless  of  whether  there  was  a  road  or  not.  "Is 
that  a  road?"  I  asked  once  or  twice,  and  was  told  it 
was!  When  nearly  at  our  destination,  and  having 
taken  three  hours  instead  of  two,  we  had  a  final 
delay:  In  a  lane  we  met  three  galloping  soldiers, 
who  signalled  to  us  to  stop.  We  were  made  to  draw 
up  onto  the  grassy  roadside  and  there  we  stood  for 
half  an  hour,  while  at  least  eighteen,  if  not  twenty, 
guns  went  by,  drawn  by  their  mule  teams  of  six 
each.  It  was  very  picturesque,  the  men  riding  the 
teams  shouted  and  urged  and  beat  their  mules, 
trumpeters  galloped  bv,  officers  stood  escort  by  our 
car  while  they  past.  The  soldiers  were  dressed  in 
coarse  white  linen  uniforms,  and  white  leggings 
and  hats,  with  red  cord  and  tassels  on  their  shoul- 

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ders.  They  looked  rather  dilapidated  individual- 
ly, but  very  picturesque  collectively.  I  did  not  dare 
photograph  them,  as  it  might  have  been  a  troop 
movement.  The  papers  this  morning  are  full  of 
the  insurrection  of  the  troops  under  Gen.  Herrera 
near  Tampico  in  the  state  of  Vera  Cruz,  Huasteca 
District,  and  there  seems  to  be  something  in  the 
air  .  .  .  who  knows,  trouble  again  perhaps?  But 
no  one  troubles. 

At  last  we  arrived  in  the  wonderful  valley.  It 
seemed  completely  deserted  except  for  the  work- 
men who  are  digging  the  excavations,  and  some 
big  eyed  barefooted  silent  children  who  watched 
us.  Instantly  on  arrival  we  climbed  up  to  the  top 
of  the  pyramid  of  the  Sun.  Its  base  measurement 
is  said  to  be  that  of  the  Pyramids  of  Egypt,  but  it 
is  not  so  high,  nor  so  pointed.  It  has  been  flattened 
out  on  the  top,  for  the  sacrifices.  The  human 
bodies,  after  their  hearts  were  cut  out,  were  simply 
thrown  over  the  edge,  and  there  are  supposed  to 
have  been  men  stationed  on  each  platform  below, 
to  pitchfork  them  on  and  over  down  to  the  next 
until  finally  at  the  bottom,  they  were  collected  by 
those  to  whom  they  proudly  belonged,  and  taken 
away,  ...  it  having  been  a  great  honor  to  be 
sacrificed. 

The  view  from  the  summit  was  awesome.  Great 
mountain  peaks  dwarfed  us,  and  a  little  way  be- 
yond stood  the  pyramid  of  the  Moon,  and  the 
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"Road  of  the  Dead"  with  its  small  sentinel  Teocalis 
all  along  the  way,  leading  from  the  "Moon"  past 
us,  to  the  distant  so-called  Citadel.  We  lunched 
nearby  in  a  great  natural  cave,  which  had  long 
zigzagging  steps  that  led  down  into  it,  and  made 
one  feel  rather  theatrical  and  Ali-Babaish!  After 
luncheon  we  went  to  this  "Citadel,"  where  the  new 
excavations  and  restorations  are  taking  place.  No 
one  is  allowed  to  go  near  it,  and  little  is  known 
about  it  as  yet.  The  discoveries  are  going  on  apace, 
and  promise  to  be  among  the  most  dramatically  in- 
teresting in  the  American  Continent.  I  suppose 
some  day  the  world  will  awaken  to  the  wonders 
here,  and  will  give  it  their  attention  instead  of  con- 
stantly re-treaHing  the  well  worn  paths  of  archeo- 
logical  Europe  and  Egypt. 

Sheltered,  hidden,  protected  behind  an  Aztec 
Teocali,  there  has  just  been  revealed  another  of 
infinitely  earlier  date  of  which  little,  if  anything,  is 
as  yet  surmised.  To  date,  four  tiers  of  sculptured 
walls  have  been  unearthed  and  in  between  these 
terraces  straight  up  from  the  base  to  the  as  yet  un- 
covered summit,  are  wide  steep  stone  steps,  the 
side  slopes  of  which  are  punctuated  by  enormous 
dragon  heads.  These  same  heads,  slightly  varied, 
stood  out  from  the  wall  of  the  four  terraces,  one 
above  the  other,  from  a  low  relief  background. 
The  eyes  of  the  great  stone  dragon-heads  are  set 
with  obsidion,  a  black  volcanic  glass  which  the 

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district  produces.  There  are  signs  of  color  on 
these  sculptures.  The  whole  thing  is  barbaric,  and 
overwhelmingly  effective.  It  suggested  to  my  mind 
something  very  definitely  Chinese.  It  was  a  great 
privilege  to  be  able  to  see  this  new  discovery  and 
to  be  allowed  to  take  photographs.  We  were  told 
by  an  official  to  whom  Mr.  Conway  gave  his  name, 
that  we  might  climb  anywhere,  and  take  what 
photographs  we  pleased.  This,  after  our  first  re- 
ception by  an  officious  but  dutiful  underling,  who 
forbade  us  to  do  anything  we  wanted  to  do,  was 
a  heaven  sent  relief! 

Around  us  in  a  gigantic  square,  walls,  and  steps 
and  Teocalis  were  being  restored.  The  centre  may 
prove  to  have  been  a  gigantic  arena,  that  was  what 
the  space  and  its  shape  suggested  to  me,  but  all 
conjecture  in  this  place  is  futile.  No  one  knows 
...  it  is  no  good  asking  or  seeking  or  imagining.  It 
is  the  great  mystery  of  the  World's  History.  Per- 
haps if  the  fanatical  first  Spanish  Viceroy  had  not 
burnt  all  the  Indian  records  something  might  be 
known.  As  it  is,  unless  something  is  revealed,  we 
shall  continue  in  ignorance.  A  little  feeling  of 
pride  came  over  me,  as  I  viewed  these  monuments 
from  the  top  of  the  Teocali,  and  realized  that 
sculpture  had  survived  where  painting,  and  life, 
and  race,  and  history  and  tradition  even  had  faded 
away.  Almost  one  might  dare  to  say  that  sculpture 
that  is  monumental  is  immortal. 
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Saturday,  July  16,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

Alberto  Pani  gave  a  luncheon  for  me,  which 
proved  unexpectedly  pleasant.  We  were  three 
women  and  seven  men,  among  whom  was  Jose  Vas- 
conselos,  the  Rector  of  the  University,  a  very  bril- 
liant man  for  whom  the  Government  has  created  a 
portfolio;  Enciso,  the  Guardian  of  Ancient  Build- 
ings ;  Martinez,  the  head  of  the  Academia  of  Belles 
Artes,  Mantenegro,  a  painter  of  great  distinction. 
I  sat  between  my  host,  whom  I  find  understanding 
and  easy  to  talk  to  and  on  my  other  side  a  man 
called  Dr.  Atl.  His  name  isn't  really  Atl  at  all, 
but  as  he  is  called  that  and  was  introduced  to  me 
under  that  name  he  may  as  well  remain  Atl.  He 
is  the  man  who  was  especially  asked  to  meet  me, 
to  tell  me  about  Popocatapetl.  He  has  been  up  to 
the  crater  a  great  many  times.  In  fact  the  love  and 
the  obsession  of  his  life  is  said  to  be  the  great  White 
Mountain!  He  was  explained  to  me  as  being  a 
painter,  a  poet,  a  Bolshevik,  a  Bohemian.  .  .  .  He 
certainly  has  individuality,  and  was  not  a  bit  sur- 
prised when  I  told  him  he  was  a  Russian  type,  and 
that  in  fact  he  talks  French  as  the  Russians  I  have 
known  talked  it.  He  knew  it,  but  denied  any  Rus- 
sian blood.  .  .  .  Anyway  to  my  great  delight,  he 
says  it  is  perfectly  possible  to  do  the  ascent  at  this, 
the  rainy  season.  So  many  people  have  been  tell- 
ing me  that  it  was  an  impossibility!    He  promises 

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to  take  me  next  week.*  With  my  host  I  had  an 
interesting  talk,  about  things  here,  as  well  as  in 
Russia.  He  asked  me  what  my  impression  was  of 
Lenin,  and  I  told  him.  .  .  .  We  discussed  opinions 
very  openly,  and  at  the  end  of  it  I  asked  him, 
laughingly:  "Am  I  a  Bolshevik  .  .  .?"  and  he  said 
"No, — you  are  une  femme  intelligente,  with  good 
judgment!"  Above  all  we  talked  about  Mexico 
and  I  think  he  was  pleased  by  my  enthusiasm  and 
my  interest.  I  amused  them  all,  by  telling  them 
(to  illustrate  the  prevailing  ignorance  of  Mexico) 
that  my  "in-laws"  had  had  a  conference  on  the 
matter  of  my  having  dared  to  risk  Dick's  life  by 
bringing  him  to  Mexico,  as  a  result  of  which  they 
had  decided  that  on  my  return  to  England,  Dick 
should  be  removed  from  my  custody.  An  excellent 
reason,  as  they  pointed  out,  for  not  returning  to 
England,  but  remaining  in  Mexico!  "All  the 
same,"  Pani  admitted,  "we  have  had  terrible  times 
here,  when  really  one  only  went  out  at  the  risk  of 
one's  life,  and  the  outside  world  hears  only  of  our 
upheavals."  He  said  laughingly  that  Popocatapetl 
was  very  emblematical  of  Mexico.  .  .  .  "We  are  a 
volcanic  country,  ready  at  any  moment  to  erupt." 
I  like  their  sense  of  humor  about  themselves.  When 
I  said  I  wanted  to  meet  General  Villa,  they  all 

♦Popocatapetl,  simultaneously  with  my  plans,  went  into  erup- 
tion so  I  never  achieved  the  ascent. 

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laughed,  and  said  "Well,  if  you  want  to  meet  Mex- 
ican Generals,  your  time  will  be  well  taken  up, 
there  are  about  six  thousand  of  them!" 

Sunday,  July  17,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

Spent  the  day  with  Mr.  Niven  at  Atcapazalco 
about  half  an  hour  out  by  tram,  and  a  couple  of 
miles  from  the  tramway.  It  was  real  "wilds"  with 
here  and  there  an  Indian  village.  Mr.  Niven 
works  indefatigably.  All  during  the  week  his 
workmen  prepare  the  ground  for  him  and  dig  the 
trenches,  and  on  Sundays  he  comes  out  himself, 
with  a  small  pickaxe  and  goes  over  the  ground.  He 
has  done  this  for  twenty-seven  years,  and  a  great 
many  things  in  the  National  Museum  are  of  his 
discovery  and  presentation.  There  are  three  civili- 
zations buried  in  layers,  and  because  nothing  is 
known  of  them,  they  are  called  the  Aztec  (three 
feet  below  the  ground),  the  pre- Aztec  and  the 
primitives.  The  principal  and  most  valuable  of 
the  layers  is  the  middle  one.  Unfortunately,  ours 
was  not  as  productive  a  Sunday  as  it  should  have 
been,  for  Mr.  Niven  allowed  a  Mrs.  Gould  to  turn 
Saturday  into  Sunday  and  she  had  all  the  benefit  of 
the  week's  digging,  and  unearthed  a  little  Xochip- 
ili  (The  Goddess  of  Spring  and  Flowers).  Never- 
theless the  soil  yielded  up  innumerable  little  terra- 
cotta heads  of  Egyptian  design,  and  incense  burn- 
ers, and  obsidion  knives.    At  the  last,  he  came  upon 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

the  wall  of  a  building,  it  was  an  outer  wall,  and 
he  had  great  hopes  of  what  it  might  contain,  but 
the  hour  was  then  late,  and  a  thunder  storm  threat- 
ening and  we  had  to  abandon  the  pursuit.  One 
learns  patience  at  this  job. 


Tuesday,  July  19,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

The  National  Museum  is  only  open  in  the  morn- 
ing, but  Mr.  Niven  and  Professor  (of  Archae- 
ology) Mena,  opened  it  for  me,  and  spent  the 
afternoon  explaining  things  to  me.  It  is  a  place 
in  which  one  might  spend  to  advantage  every  day 
for  two  months.  It  contains  a  wealth  of  revela- 
tion. Even  the  countries  that  contain  Mexican  col- 
lections can  have  no  idea  of  Mexican  primitive 
culture.  One  must  see  the  collection  in  this 
Museum. 

I  had  just  been  given  a  small  jade  god,  which 
I  recognized  at  once  as  being  infinitely  old  and 
beautiful.  Professor  Mena  knew  all  about  it  at 
once.  It  is  a  "stone  of  virtue"  (Piedra  Divertua) 
and  belongs  to  the  Mixteca  civilization,  two  thou- 
sand years  ago.  It  is  beautifully  carved  and  I  love 
it  dearly.  (Had  it  a  small  pointed  beard,  it  would 
look  like  Trotzky!)  I  did  not  exaggerate  the  im- 
pression of  my  former  superficial  visit  to  the  Mu- 
seum. If  I  was  struck  by  it  then,  I  was  over- 
whelmed by  it  today.  The  more  one  looks  the 
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more  one  discovers  of  beauty.    The  best  things  are 
masterpieces,  and  two  or  three  of  the  reliefs  are  as 
beautiful  and  as  well  carved  and  drawn,  as  any  of 
the  most  famous  works  of  art  in  the  world.    I  say 
this  with  perfect  confidence.     Egyptian  and  As- 
syrian influence  with  classic  Greek  designs  and  a 
tremendous  suggestion  of  Chinese,  makes  one  per- 
fectly bewildered  as  to  origin  and  tradition.    Up- 
stairs among  the  smaller  things  there  were  objects 
of  such  finished  beauty  that  I  was  silenced  even  as 
to  expression  of  appreciation.    I  wonder  if  I  am  an 
unusually  ignorant  person,  or  whether  I  have  made 
a  great  discovery.    I  am  under  the  impression  that 
the  world  in  general  does  not  know  much  about 
things  Mexican. 

Sometimes,  I  am  afraid  to  trust  my  own  judg- 
ment, .  .  .  since  I  discovered  Shakespeare.    It  was 
long  after  my  maturity,  and  I  happened  to  chance 
upon  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream."    I  could  not 
put  it  down  until  I  had  finished  it,  and  then,  so 
thrilled  was  I,  that  I  rushed  to  my  family  and  told 
them  all  about  it.  Perhaps  my  discovery  of  Mexico 
is    another  of    the   world's    Shakespeares,   which 
everyone  already  knows  about  except  me.    But  so 
enthused  am  I,  and  delighted,  that  I  would  like  to 
take  Mexico  to  England,  or  else  bring  England  to 
Mexico.  .  .  .  When  I  find  something  interesting  I 
want  to  share  it.  .  .  .  Russia  was  a  thing  to  live,  this 
is  a  thing  to  see.    Not  many  of  my  friends  would 

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have  cared  to  live  as  I  loved  living,  in  Russia.  But 
heaps  of  people  would  appreciate  the  things  that 
are  beautiful  to  see  here  in  Mexico. 

No  news  from  Dr.  Atl  about  Popocatapetl  but 
rumor  says  it  is  in  eruption.  Message  through 
Mr.  Malbran,  the  Argentine  Minister,  from  Presi- 
dent Obregon,  inviting  me  to  Chapultepec  Castle 
Sunday  night  at  9  :oo  P.M.  Message  from  Mr.  de 
la  Huerta,  the  Minister  of  Finance,  saying  that  he 
has  heard  and  read  of  the  mondaine  society  by 
whom  I  am  being  entertained,  and  that  he  sug- 
gests that  in  three  days,  if  I  am  tired  of  these  peo- 
ple, I  go  to  see  him  and  he  will  show  me  "the  other 
side  of  Mexico"  .  .  .  invitation  definite  for  Mon- 
day afternoon  next. 

Sunday,  July  24,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

Mr.  Conway  fetched  me  and  Dick  in  his  car  at 
9:00  A.M.  and  we  drove  out  to  Tipositlan.  It  is 
about  40  kilometers  away.  It  had  been  raining 
all  night  and  the  roads  were  desperately  slippery. 
We  had  to  climb  up  a  small  mountain  and  the  road 
was  not  really  a  road,  but  a  muddy  torrent.  The 
car  stuck.  Dick  delighted,  he  got  out  and  climbed 
the  mountain  side  and  picked  wild  flowers.  To 
my  surprise  it  did  in  time  get  out  of  the  mire  and 
we  climbed  to  the  top,  closely  followed  by  a  huge 
motor-lorry.  When  we  had  descended  the  hill  on 
the  other  side  onto  the  flat  road,  the  lorry  tried  to 
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race  us,  with  the  result  that  the  driver  was  very 
nearly  jolted  off  the  seat  and  the  man  next  to  the 
driver  did  actually  fall  off!  Such  is  the  condition 
of  the  roads  just  outside  the  city  area. 

Arrived  finally  at  Tepositlan  we  rambled  all 
over  the  church,  the  convent  and  the  patios.  It 
used  to  be  a  Jesuit  Monastery ;  they  were  planted 
there  in  order  to  educate  and  influence  the  Indian 
children.  They  have  within  the  last  few  years 
been  expelled,  leaving  behind  them  a  really  beau- 
tiful monument  of  church  art.  I  have  not  seen 
anything  more  beautiful  in  Italy.  The  facade  of 
the  church,  the  carvings,  the  towers  and  domes, 
the  surrounding  wall,  the  avenue  of  cypress,  the 
gnarled  olive  trees,  complete  an  exquisite  exterior. 
Within  there  is  a  church  that  is  gold!  Gold!  Gold! 
but  the  gold  is  on  carved  wood  and  the  gold  is  old 
gold,  so  that  what  must  have  once  been  dazzling 
and  vulgar,  is  now  mellow  and  beautiful.  Then 
there  are  little  inner  chapels  that  are  gems  of 
beauty,  and  a  patio,  sun-bathed,  and  full  of  orange 
trees  in  fruit,  cloister  surrounded.  The  whole  thing 
was  an  endless  labyrinth  of  real  beauty. 

We  retired  to  the  garden  of  Don  Trinidad,  a 
picturesque  farmer,  who  set  a  table  for  us  to  lunch 
under  the  largest  fig  tree  I  have  ever  seen,  our 
dessert  being  overhead,  reachable  by  standing  on  a 
chair!  Always  wherever  one  looks,  whether  in 
town  or  in  country,  there  is  the  background  of 

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mountain  ranges  that  meets  the  eye.  After  lunch 
we  climbed  to  the  topmost  belfry. 

I  got  home  just  in  time  to  have  a  short  rest,  and 
then  Mr.  Malbran  fetched  me  in  his  car  and  took 
me  to  Chapultepec  Castle,  which,  by  the  way,  is 
much  prettier  at  night,  lit  up.  We  drove  straight 
up  to  the  front  door, — no  sentries  attempted  to 
stop  us.  It  was  like  a  deserted  country  house,  and 
even  with  the  front  door  wide  open,  there  was  no 
one  about,  and  Mr.  Malbran  had  to  walk  outside, 
to  a  guard  or  someone,  and  request  that  our  arrival 
be  announced.  We  waited  for  about  ten  minutes  in 
a  small  Council  Chamber  on  the  right  of  the  en- 
trance, and  then  voices  were  heard.  Mr.  Malbran 
said  "Here  he  is" — and  I  recognized  at  once,  com- 
ing towards  us,  the  one-armed  General,  whose  face 
the  newspapers  have  made  familiar.  He  invited  us 
to  go  upstairs  to  one  of  the  reception  rooms,  and 
he  led  the  way  to  a  room  where  the  chairs  were 
covered  with  overalls,  and  stood  all  in  a  solemn 
row,  except  a  tapestry  sofa  and  centrepiece  pre- 
sented by  Napoleon  III,  I  suppose  to  Maximilian, 
and  set  in  light  yellow  wood,  and  perfectly 
hideous. 

We  three  sat  in  this  formal  unlived-in  room, 
and  Mr.  Malbran  proceeded  to  be  our  interpreter 
for  about  an  hour.  Whenever  I  was  being  inter- 
preted to  the  President,  I  had  the  chance  of  watch- 
ing his  face.  His  hair  is  thick  and  black,  his 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

rather  flowing  moustache  tinged  with  grey.  His 
face  is  round  and  fresh  complexioned,  he  is  power- 
fully built,  but  too  stout.  His  right  arm  is  cut  off 
above  the  elbow,  and  every  now  and  then  he  moves 
the  stump,  which  gives  the  impression  of  a  bird 
trying  to  use  a  broken  wing.  We  had  a  fine  battle 
of  wits,  which  through  an  interpreter  became  so 
clear  and  acute  that  we  all  of  us  had  finally  to 
laugh  over  it.  Talking  through  an  interpreter  is  as 
bad  as  talking  to  a  deaf  person  through  an  ear 
trumpet.  I  said  I  had  come  with  the  hopes  of 
doing  his  portrait,  that  I  regarded  myself  as  an 
historian,  and  it  was  my  idea  to  try  and  represent 
the  people  of  my  own  day, — whatever  country  they 
belong  to,  so  long  as  they  have  accomplished  some- 
thing. 

The  President  replied  that  he  had  not  yet  ac- 
complished the  things  for  which  he  represented 
the  Mexican  people,  and  that  he  felt  too  modest  at 
present  to  allow  himself  to  be  done.  There  was 
only  one  thing  he  minded,  and  that  was  ridicule. 
"My  people  will  think  I  am  competing  with  the 
Venus  of  Milol"  he  said,  shaking  his  stump.  He 
would  not  refuse  me,  however,  and  suggested 
merely  a  postponement  of  three  years,  to  enable 
him  in  that  space  of  time  to  "make  good"  .  .  . 

I  said  that  success  was  not  necessary  to  a  man's 
greatness.  That  I  had  done  Asquith,  who  had  not 
brought  England  through  the  war,  and  Winston 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

Churchill,  who  is  not  yet  Prime  Minister,  and 
Lenin,  who  has  not  yet  brought  the  Russian  ex- 
periment to,  a  triumph,  and  Marconi  who  ad- 
mitted to  me  himself  that  he  had  not  yet  completed 
the  invention  that  was  to  make  him  most  famous ! 
But  that  these  are  all  nevertheless  historical  men.  I 
explained  that  Mexico  ought  to  be  represented  in 
my  world  collection,  and  that  I  understood  he, 
General  Obregon,  was  the  best  and  the  most  repre- 
sentative man  of  the  15,000,000  people  of  Mexico! 
The  President  laughed,  he  said  "If  I  am  the  best, 
what  must  you  think  of  the  others?"  He  said  that  if 
I  were  less  famous  and  therefore  his  sitting  to  me 
less  conspicuous,  he  might  consent,  but  that  he 
was  not  a  worthy  subject  yet  for  so  distinguished 
an  artist,  but  that  he  would  work  during  the  three 
years  to  come  with  a  new  zeal.  Knowing  the  prize 
in  view! 

I  swept  his  compliments  aside  by  asking  him  to 
help  me  to  be  a  more  distinguished  artist  by  having 
the  honor  to  do  him! 

He  laughed,  and  said  that  he  had  had  many 
dangerous  moments  in  his  life,  but  never  had  he 
felt  nearer  to  defeat  than  at  this  moment,  and  de- 
feat by  a  woman  .  .  . !  To  which  I  repeated  that  I 
had  been  told  the  President  was  a  man  of  force, 
but  I  had  no  idea  he  had  such  force. 

When  this  was  translated,  he  seemed  slightly  em- 
barrassed, and  I  went  on,  revelling  in  his  discom- 
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fiture:  "Lenin  said  it  was  extremely  tiresome  of  me 
to  want  to  do  him,  but  that  after  all,  I  had  come 
such  a  long  way  to  do  it!  Now  Mexico  is  just  as 
far  as  Moscow,  and  are  you  going  to  allow  it  to  be 
said  that  the  Bolsheviks  are  more  chivalrous  and 
more  cultured?  Of  course,  he  knew,  and  I  knew, 
and  he  knew  that  I  knew  that  there  is  no  compari- 
son between  himself  and  Lenin.  The  one  is  bound 
to  live  in  the  world's  history.  .  .  ."  He  said  desper- 
ately "I  will  be  delighted  to  see  you  whenever  you 
care  to  see  me.  I  play  cards  and  billiards  and  ride 
horse  back,  and  will  do  any  of  these  things  with 
you  if  you  wish.  .  .  ."  He  then  went  on  to  explain 
that  Mexico  had  had  so  many  Presidents  in  the 
last  few  years,  some  of  them,  men  of  ability,  but 
others,  men  of  no  consequence. . . .  He  did  not  wish 
to  be  classified  in  this  latter  category,  so  that  when 
I  had  done  his  bust,  it  should  turn  out  to  be  of 
some  one  of  no  importance.  .  .  .  He  had  certain 
definite  work  he  wished  to  accomplish,  work  for 
which  the  Mexican  people  had  elected  him  their 
representative,  and  he  must  try  and  accomplish 
that  work  before  he  had  a  right  to  assume  any  atti- 
tude that  might  be  mistaken  by  his  people  as  being 
a  satisfaction  with  himself.  I  said  that  I  under- 
stood his  point  of  view  but  deplored  it!  We  then 
went  on  to  talk  about  Mexico,  and  my  appreciation 
of  all  there  was  to  see,  and  he  said  that  I  was  not 
to  be  allowed  to  go  away  before  the  Centenary  cele- 

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bration  (September  15th)  and  that  I  should  rep- 
resent "Modern  Europe"  at  the  Centenary! 
"Modern"  indeed!  but  I  do  not  see  myself  living 
until  September  without  work! 

He  left  the  room  for  a  moment  to  give  an  order, 
explaining  he  had  sent  for  a  reproduction  of  him- 
self that  Madame  Obregon  had  presented  to  him, 
and  that  he  would  like  to  show  me.    Presently  two 
small  children  came  in:  "These  are  the  reproduc- 
tions of  me!"  he  said,  laughingly  .  .  .  the  boy  about 
4  years  old  was  certainly  like  him.    The  little  girl, 
rather  frail  and  white,  less  so.    I  wondered  at  those 
small  children  not  being  in  bed,  it  must  have  been 
nearly  ten  o'clock.    No  wonder  they  looked  pale! 
The  President  then  took  us  upstairs  to  another 
large  uninhabitated  reception  room,  to  show  us  a 
picture  done  from  photographs  by  a  Spanish  artist! 
The  picture  had  its  face  to  the  wall,  and  when 
turned  round  by  two  attendants,  for  our  inspection, 
it  was  obviously  just  what  a  picture  would  be  like 
done  from  photographs!     I  felt  it  had  better  go 
back  with  its  face  to  the  wall.     I  also  thought  of 
Colonel  Miller,  the  U.  S.  Military  Attache,  who 
informed  me  sometime  ago,  that  visiting  a  pottery 
he  found   that  a  workman  had  modelled   from 
photographs  an  "excellent  and  most  clever  like- 
ness of  Obregon"  .  .  .  He  paid  the  workman  two 
pesos  for  it  and  intended  to  "present  it"  to  the 
President.    Done  from  photographs,  for  two  pesos. 
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How  can  one  compete?    I  cannot  help  smiling  as  I 
recall   the  three  distinguished   portrait  painters, 
who,  on  hearing  I  was  coming  to  Mexico,  bade  me 
cable  to  them  if  there  was  any  work  to  do,  so  that 
they  might  come  immediately.    To  switch  off  from 
this  train  of  thought  I     asked,  if  I  were  not  in- 
discreet in  doing  so,  what  the  President's  impres- 
sion was  of  the  condition  of  Russia  from  the  re- 
ports of  his  representatives  whom  he  had  sent  there 
three  months  ago.     He  explained  that  the  repre- 
sentatives had  not  yet  returned,  but  one  was  to  ar- 
rive in  about  sixty  days.     Meanwhile  they  have 
orders  not  to  send  communications  by  mail.     His 
own  private  opinion  was  that  every  movement  has 
something  good  as  well  as  bad  in  it.    He  thought 
the  result  of  the  Russians  having  been  so  long  op- 
pressed, was  that  they  were  now  like  birds  let  out 
of  a  cage,  and  not  knowing  quite  what  to  do  with 
their  freedom.  ...  I  thought  to  myself,  this  is  the 
most  non-committal  opinion  I  have  ever  heard  ex- 
pressed! and  I  marvelled  at  the  unhesitating  readi- 
ness of  the  man,  who  is  really  a  soldier,  yet  talks 
like  a  diplomat!    My  impression  was  of  a  man  of 
no  culture  and  little  education.    His  face  shows  no 
trace  of  thought  or  even  anxiety,  he  is  quick,  cau- 
tious and  strong-minded.  I  asked  him  before  I  left, 
whether  his  disinclination  to  be  modelled  by  me 
was  influenced  by  the  fact  that  I  had  done  Lenin 
and  Trotzky.    He  said  most  emphatically  that  this 

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was  not  the  case,  and  that  he  was  far  too  inde- 
pendent a  man  to  entertain  such  small  ideas.  He 
seemed  really  rather  worried  lest  I  should  think 
him  discourteous,  and  he  begged  me  to  tell  him 
what  he  could  do  for  me,  as  he  would  like  to  be  my 
best  friend  in  Mexico, — would  I  come  and  see  him 
whenever  I  liked  without  any  pretext  being  neces- 
sary and  if  I  could  not  produce  an  interpreter,  he 
would.  "But  in  three  years  .  .  ."  he  said,  "I  shall 
speak  French!"  "and  ...  I  Spanish,"  I  said.  He 
picked  me  flowers  from  the  roof  garden,  took 
my  arm  and  helped  me  upstairs  and  expressed 
in  every  outward  way  his  desire  to  be  friendly. 
He  said  to  me,  as  I  was  leaving:  "You  must 
know  in  your  heart  that  I  am  right  .  .  ."  and  of 
course  I  do  know  it.  I  have  already  said  it. 
Obregon  has  not  yet  done  anything  to  immortalize 
his  name  in  History  ...  he  may  'go'  tomorrow,  and 
another  take  his  place  ...  I  said  to  him,  "Well,  do 
something  quickly  to  justify  my  doing  your  bust!" 
Meanwhile  let  us  "wait  and  see"  what  he  is 
going  to  do! 

Monday,  July  25,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

I  see  in  the  newspaper  that  Einstein  has  re- 
turned to  Germany.  His  criticism  of  the  United 
States  is  quoted  in  the  MEXICAN  POST.  He  abuses 
them  after  all  their  hospitality,  he  laughs  at  their 
adulation.  He  says  the  men  are  the  lapdogs  of 
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the  women.  ...  I  suppose  the  American  man's 
attitude  towards  woman  is  about  as  extreme  in 
one  direction  as  the  German's  attitude  is  extreme 
in  another.  As  a  woman  I  can  only  say,  "Thank 
God  for  the  American  man."  I  suppose  the  word 
'Hausfrau'  is  almost  an  international  word.  It 
describes  a  certain  type  of  woman,  and  it  is  a  Ger- 
man type.  The  German  man  has  made  her  so. 
Einstein  may  well  scoff  at  the  position  of  woman 
in  the  States.  To  him  the  chivalry  of  the  Ameri- 
can man  is  not  easily  understood.  As  for  Ameri- 
can people's  enthusiasm  over  the  Einstein  theory, 
"which  they  did  not  understand,"  that  is  probably 
why  they  enthused,  which  they  otherwise  might 
not. 

This  evening  at  five, — Mr.  Malbran  called  for 
me,  and  drove  me  to  the  Ministry  of  Finance,  to 
keep  our  appointment  with  de  la  Huerta.  The 
familiar  view  of  a  busy  Government  office  re- 
called Moscow.  We  passed  through  two  rooms 
in  which  people  were  waiting,  and  I  waited  only 
about  three  minutes  in  a  third  room  full  of  men. 
The  realization  that  all  these  people  were  wait- 
ing to  see  him  made  me  rather  anxious,  but  we 
were  shown  in  almost  immediately  to  the  Min- 
ister's great  big  reposeful  room.  We  were  joined 
by  a  young  man,  his  English  interpreter,  and  all 
four  of  us  sitting  round  in  a  circle,  conversation 
began,  rather  formally.    The  feeling  was:  "Well 

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now  you're  here,  say  something,"  and  through  an 
interpreter  I  am  shy  to  begin.  Mr.  Malbran  also 
makes  me  nervous !  This  feeling  of  restraint,  how- 
ever, only  lasted  for  a  few  minutes.  When  we  had 
acquitted  ourselves  of  mutual  compliments,  tell- 
ing each  other  that  we  had  heard  so  much  about 
the  other,  and  how  interested  we  were  in  meeting 
one  another,  I  said  that  I  had  so  many  things 
that  I  wanted  to  talk  to  him  about,  and  so  many 
questions  I  wanted  to  ask.  He  replied  in  a  most 
gracious  manner,  that  I  had  but  to  ask  anything 
I  liked,  without  reserve.  So  I  broke  the  ice  by 
asking  rather  flippantly,  why  the  Government 
didn't  make  use  of  all  the  young  men  who  were 
selling  bananas  and  mangoes  in  the  streets,  and 
put  them  to  work  on  making  roads.  I  said  there 
were  such  beautiful  places  to  see  and  so  hard  to 
get  to.  He  took  my  question  more  seriously  than 
I  had  anticipated.  He  said  that  the  economic  po- 
sition of  the  country  had  to  be  straightened  dut 
first,  and  that  meanwhile  all  the  important  things 
were  held  up.  "If  only,"  he  said,  "England  would 
recognize  us  and  help  to  stabilize  us,  instead  of 
creating  this  wall  around  us,  we  might  get  out 
onto  our  feet."  I  told  him  that  his  words  sounded 
like  an  echo  of  Moscow,  and  he  said,  "Russia  is 
more  fortunate  than  we,  for  she  has  her  recogni- 
tion now  and  we  have  not." 

The  subject  of  Russia  just  broke  down  any  re- 
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maining  formalities  or  restraint.  We  were,  as 
one  might  say,  "off."  He  asked  me  pointblank 
did  I  think  the  majority  in  Russia  were  better  off 
since  the  new  system.  I  looked  at  Mr.  Malbran, 
the  polished  diplomat,  who  was  following  this  dis- 
cussion with  attention.  "At  the  risk  of  Mr. 
Malbran  thinking  me  a  Bolshevik,  (and  we  all 
laughed)  I  confess  that  in  my  humble  opinion, 
the  majority  are  better  off,  that  is  to  say,  the  work- 
ing people  have  more.  They  certainly  have  no 
less." 

"If  those  are  your  views,"  de  la  Huerta  said, "can 
you  explain  an  alleged  interview  with  you,  in  a 
Mexican  paper,  in  which  you  are  quoted  as  saying 
that, l Communism  in  Russia  has  completely  broken 
down.'  "  I  denied  having  made  any  such  state- 
ment, and  not  being  able  to  read  Spanish,  that  was 
the  first  I  had  heard  of  it.  He  asked  if  I  had  heard 
in  Russia  any  opinions  expressed  about  Mexico. 
I  was  sorry  to  have  to  admit  that  I  had  not.  No 
one  at  that  time  associated  me  in  the  least  with 
anything  but  England,  and  as  I  did  not  under- 
stand Russian,  I  lost  much  that  I  might  have 
learned  from  overhearing. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  Mexico,  and  of  the 
present  Government?"  he  asked.  I  said  rather 
humbly,  that  it  was  perfectly  bewildering,  and 
that  I  did  not  understand  it.  But  I  knew  some  of 
the  details  of  their  labor  laws  which  were  ex- 

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tremely  liberal,  and  I  admired  very  much.  "And 
what  do  you  think  of  the  contrast  between  our 
palaces  and  our  poor — ?"  he  asked  me.  I  said  I 
hadn't  seen  many  palaces. . . . 

"But  you  have  anyway  seen  Pani's,  and  Mal- 
bran's!"  he  said  laughing. 

"Yes,  but  your  climate  is  kind,  and  your  poor  do 
not  look  so  wretched,  as  for  instance  in  England." 

"Come  with  me  some  day  ...  I  will  show  you," 
he  offered. 

I  said  that  anything  he  could  show  me  would 
be  greatly  appreciated.  He  promised  to  snatch  an 
hour  or  two  next  Thursday  at  three.  "And  when 
you  have  seen  some  of  the  misery  of  these  people, 
you  will  wonder  why  some  of  us  have  not  given 
our  lives  to  ameliorate  their  lot." 

I  said,  "the  first  thing  that  should  be  done  her^e 
— is  Hygiene". 

The  Minister  agreed,  "And  next  is  education." 
He  agreed  again  but  added:  "All  that  depends  on 
the  economic  position  of  the  country." 

I  said,  "You  have  your  soil  full  of  richness,  your 
country  is  richer  than  almost  any  other  country, 
why  do  not  you  Mexicans  get  up  and  possess  it. 
instead  of  allowing  the  foreigner  to  come  in  and 
exploit  it?" 

"Understand  .  .  ."  he  answered,  "that  after  years 
of  oppression,  when  we  were,  as  it  were,  a  nation  of 
slaves,  we  gained  our  liberty,  and  before  we  knew 
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what  use  to  make  of  it,  the  experienced  foreigner 
came  to  show  us  and  he  took  things  into  his  own 
hands.  Today  it  complicates  our  machinery  be- 
yond words." 

Conversation  began  to  be  a  mix-up  of  Spanish, 
French  and  English.  When  the  Minister's  inter- 
preter failed  in  his  English,  Malbran  came  to  the 
rescue  in  French.  The  Minister  understood  enough 
English  to  prompt  in  the  translations,  and  I  un- 
derstood enough  Spanish  to  get  the  spirit  of  his 
meaning. 

"It  must  be  a  wonderful  thing,"  I  said,  "to  be  in 
a  position  of  power,  and  to  be  able  to  help  in  the 
uplift  of  the  workers." 

He  said  he  had  devoted  twenty  years  of  his  life 
to  this  task,  at  the  risk  of  being  abused  and  misun- 
derstood. He  told  us  of  his  organization  of  a 
labor  representation  within  the  Government  as 
early  as  191 6,  before  Russia  ever  began  her  revolu- 
tion. He  said  it  had  been  hard  work,  and  things 
had  not  gone  as  they  should  go,  they  had  been 
wrongly  organized.  The  revolutions  that  had 
occurred  one  after  another  in  Mexico  had  not 
helped  the  masses. 

"Revolution,"  he  said,  "is  composed  of  three  fac- 
tors. The  first  is  propaganda, — the  second  is  armed 
force  and  the  third  is  evolution;  and  we  began 
unfortunately  with  armed  force,  the  propaganda 
followed  and  the  evolution  was  only  partial." 

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We  discussed  the  difference  between  proletariat 
and  democracy,  he  quoted  Lenin,  who  believes  in 
the  one,  but  he  believes  in  the  other.  He  rather 
deplored  the  fact  that  the  Third  Internationale 
had  broken  away  from  democracy.  I  cannot  quote 
the  discussion,  it  was  too  long  and  too  intricate, 
and  I  would  risk  to  misquote.  But  he  spoke  with 
an  earnestness  and  a  keenness  that  even  interpreta- 
tion did  not  spoil.  He  said  that  he  did  all  he  could, 
and  all  he  dared  to  do,  to  further  the  cause  of  the 
laboring  masses,  but  he  was  handicapped,  out  of 
loyalty  to  his  President  and  a  desire  not  to  com- 
promise his  country,  by  going  too  far  in  the  world 
movement.  But  he  insisted  several  times  upon 
the  fact  that  there  would  be  no  real  amelioration 
of  suffering  in  the  world,  until  people  had  gen- 
erally realized  their  duty  towards  their  fellows,  of 
helping  and  sharing.  I  said  I  did  not  know  why  I 
interested  myself  in  the  destiny  of  the  "proletaire" 
but  that  I  could  not  help  it,  and  that  it  was  a  sub- 
ject that  always  roused  me. 

The  Minister,  with  visionary  eyes,  said  almost 
passionately,  "Sometimes  I  feel  like  a  woman  with 
a  great  love  in  her  heart,  that  she  longs  to  tell  but 
has  to  surpress  because  of  the  conventions  of  the 
world  that  surround  her,  and  which  force  her,  al- 
most nun-like,  to  preserve  in  silence,"  and  it 
sounded  beautiful  in  Spanish. 

Malbran,  whom  he  had  referred  to  as  "our  con- 
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servative  friend!"  had  become  interested,  and 
towards  the  end  he  ceased  to  be  interpreter  and 
joined  in  the  discussion. 

I  thought  of  all  the  people  in  all  the  rooms  who 
were  patiently  and  impatiently  waiting  to  see  their 
Minister  of  Finance,  who  was  engaged  in  Socialist 
arguments  with  this  strange  party!  At  the  end,  I 
said  I  felt  I  had  drunk  deep  of  clear  pure  water! 
and  he  said  chivalrously  that  it  had  been  a  great 
pleasure  to  him  to  have  opportunity  of  once  in 
awhile  "letting  himself  go.  .  .  ." 

He  repeated  his  promise  about  fetching  me 
Thursday,  to  see.  .  .  He  did  not  precisely  define 
what. 

We  got  down  into  the  street,  and  found  the  car, 
and  drove  away  with  a  strange  sense  of  excitement 
and  stimulation,  at  least  I  did,  and  as  for  Malbran, 
who  had  been  rather  silent  on  our  way  there,  he 
was  now  quite  expansive.  We  talked  animatedly 
all  the  way  back  to  the  Geneva  Hotel,  where  he 
dropped  me.  We  discussed  the  psychology  of  de  la 
Huerta,  I  said  I  would  hate  to  be  disillusioned,  but 
that  my  instinct  told  me  the  man  had  all  the  pas- 
sion and  the  sincerity  of  the  Russians  I  had  known 
in  Moscow.  We  agreed  that  if  de  la  Huerta  had 
been  imprisoned  for  years  by  a  Czarist  regime,  he 
would  be  as  fanatical  and  as  ready  to  give  his  life 
for  the  cause,  as  volcanic  and  ruthless  as  any  of  the 
Russian  Revolutionaries.     Of  the  few  people  I 

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have  met  so  far  in  Mexico,  de  la  Huerta  is  by  far 
the  most  interesting. 

Wednesday,  July  27,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

When  I  returned  from  riding  at  midday,  it  was 
to  find  Pani's  car  waiting  for  me,  and  the  infor- 
mation that  four  times  people  had  called  to  take 
me  to  the  "Haripeyo"  that  was  taking  place  at  the 
bull  ring  since  11  o'clock.  I  hurriedly  changed 
my  clothes,  cursing  fate,  that  I  had  not  been  told  of 
this  in  time.  Arrived  there  I  was  welcomed  by 
Pani,  and  Malbran.  There  were  quite  a  lot  of  peo- 
ple, but  I  didn't  know  who  they  were.  I  regretted 
not  having  had  the  chance  of  asking  my  friends. 
In  the  ring  there  were  about  a  dozen  men  on  horse- 
back, and  one  of  them  I  recognized  as  my  friend 
Guadalupe.  He  looked  extremely  picturesque  in  his 
leather  clothes  and  huge  brimmed  white  hat  em- 
broidered in  gold.  The  game  seemed  to  be  to  chase 
a  wild  horse  and  lassoo  it.  Dick  was  wildly  excited. 
He  shouted:  "That's  good!"  at  the  top  of  his  voice 
when  the  pony  was  violently  thrown  to  the  ground. 
It  may  have  been  a  wild  horse,  but  a  tame  horse  fed 
on  oats  is  wilder.  This  animal  looked  unkempt, 
moth-eaten,  and  dazed,  I  suppose  from  fright.  It 
must  be  a  rotten  game  for  the  horse,  to  be  tripped 
up  when  he's  galloping  full  speed.  They  would 
lassoo  his  front  legs  together  and  then  his  back 
legs  so  that  the  animal  lay  on  the  ground  helpless, 
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then  a  man  would  straddle  it,  and  the  horse  would 
rise  to  his  feet  with  the  man  on  his  back.  They  did 
the  same  with  a  bull,  having  previously  pursued  it, 
caught  it  by  the  tail,  given  the  tail  a  twist  round 
the  man's  leg,  which  just  threw  the  galloping  bull 
with  a  thud  to  the  ground.  Almost  the  best  feat 
was  performed  by  a  rider  who  pursued  the  wild 
horse,  caught  it  by  the  mane  and  jumped  from  his 
own  horse  on  the  back  of  the  wild  one,  as  they 
galloped  side  by  side.  They  are  wonderful  riders 
these  Mexicans.  They  can  sit  anything  and  can- 
not be  shaken  off!  But  I  would  like  to  see  them  on 
a  powerful  big  horse  with  an  English  saddle. 

Dick  and  I  spent  the  afternoon  in  the  garden 
of  the  American  Embassy.  There  is  a  little  round 
clear  blue-tiled  pond  full  of  goldfish,  and  Dick 
paddled  and  played  and  was  completely  happy.  I 
asked  Mr.  Summerlin  for  news,  as  I  get  nothing 
to  read  but  the  MEXICAN  POST.  But  he  was  full  of 
mystery  and  told  me  nothing  about  anything.  When 
people  get  a  suspicion  that  one  may  be  writing, 
they  became  terribly  secretive.  I  remember  a  time 
when  I  used  to  hear  state  secrets,  and  people 
used  to  talk  about  things  in  front  of  me  as  if  I 
were  perfectly  idiotic  and  negligible. 

Today  I  asked  Mr.  Summerlin:  "Is  recognition 
any  nearer  .  .  .?"  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in 
true  diplomatic  fashion — it  told  me  nothing.  That 
he  was  very  busy  and  finally  called  away  on  urgent 

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matters,  was  all  I  learnt.  We  might  be  on  the  eve 
of  war  for  all  I  know!  The  people  one  meets  are 
supremely  indifferent  to  everything.  The  news- 
papers record  certain  rebellions  in  various  parts, 
no  one  even  reads  them.  Even  the  Tampico  Oil 
'hold  up'  is  now  a  thing  of  the  past,  the  papers 
hardly  mention  it  at  all,  nor  the  oil  wells  that  are 
on  fire;  it  is  as  if  the  Mexican  nation  was  so  blase 
with  excitements  that  nothing  any  longer  can  stir 
their  interest. 

Thursday,  July  28,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

Punctually  at  3  o'clock,  and  true  to  his  word, 
de  la  Huerta  fetched  me  in  his  car.  Mr.  Malbran 
was  of  the  party,  and  as  also  Mr.  Rubio,  the  good- 
looking  young  man  who  interprets  for  him.  To 
my  great  joy  he  told  the  chauffeur  to  drive  to  El 
Disirto.  It  is  one  of  the  places  I  want  to  see.  If 
the  expedition  was  meant  to  show  me  the  poverty 
of  Mexico,  one  did  not  have  to  go  far,  the  outskirts 
of  the  town  are  as  sordid,  dirty,  and  miserable  as 
can  be.  But  out  in  the  open  road,  (and  a  beauti- 
ful road  it  was)  we  met  almost  a  procession  of  In- 
dians, one  behind  the  other,  walking  into  the  town 
with  their  loads.  These  loads  consist  chiefly  of 
terra-cotta  pots  and  cooking  utensils,  piled  up,  in 
and  around  a  wooden  case,  the  whole  weight  of 
which  is  carried  by  a  strap  round  the  forehead. 
Thus,  barefooted  and  bent  double,  heads  straining 
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forward  against  the  weight,  muscles  of  their  necks 
swollen,  lips  sometimes  blue,  and  bulging  eyes 
focussed  on  the  ground  immediately  in  front,  the 
Indian  man,  woman  and  boy  will  walk  twelve 
kilometres.  De  la  Huerta,  pointing  to  some  In- 
dians on  burros,  said:  "Those  are  the  privileged 
classes." 

"How  are  you  going  to  better  the  conditions  of 
these  people?"  I  asked  .  .  . 

"Caramba!"  he  exclaimed  with  a  gesture  of  per- 
plexity, and  this  needed  no  interpretation. 

"What  is  your  motive  in  showing  me  'La  misere' 
of  Mexico  . . .?" 

He  said:  "Your  bourgeois  friends  have  shown 
you  what  they  had  to  show,"  and  he  referred  laugh- 
ingly to  yesterday's  Haripeyo  and  the  description 
in  the  newspapers  of  the  smart  people  present. 
"Each  of  us  shows  you  his  own  side  .  .  .  .".  He  went 
on  to  tell  me  that  in  olden  days,  the  poverty  and 
distress  was  hidden  from  visitors  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, but  that  times  had  changed,  and  to-day  every- 
thing was  open  for  anyone  who  wished  to  investi- 
gate. "It  is  good  that  foreigners  should  see  what 
we  made  our  Revolution  for."  I  was  a  little  bit 
perplexed,  and  remarked :  "But  how  has  it  helped, 
if  the  people  are  still  in  this  condition?" 

He  explained  that  things  were  slowly  progres- 
sing, that  the  development  was  from  the  coast 
towards  the  centre,  he  said  proudly,  that  the  State 

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of  Sonora,  of  which  he  is  Governor  (elected  by  a 
tremendous  majority)  has  no  such  conditions,  and 
he  expressed  the  desire  that  I  might  see  his  State — 
"But  these  people"  and  he  waved  towards  the  pa- 
tient procession,  remarking  as  he  did  so  upon  the 
expression  of  suffering  in  their  faces — "these 
people  are  better  off  even  than  they  were.  In  the 
days  of  Porfirio  Diaz  they  worked  as  they  are 
worked  today,  but  they  worked  for  an  employer. 
They  were  whipped  to  work.  They  were  slaves. 
They  had  even  to  marry  according  to  their  em- 
ployers' selection.  Today  they  are  doing  the  work 
for  themselves,  they  do  it  of  free  choice,  and  what- 
ever small  gain  they  make,  it  is  theirs." 

I  quoted  what  a  friend  had  told  me,  that  the 
Indians  would  rather  sell  bananas  in  the  gutter, 
than  own  a  bit  of  land  and  have  to  cultivate  it.  De 
la  Huerta's  face  took  a  savage  expression:  "Try 
and  take  away  a  piece  of  land  from  the  Indian  who 
owns  it  and  see  what  happens  .  .  ."  he  said. 

Under  the  thirty  years  peaceful  reign  of  Porfirio 
Diaz,  a  handful  of  people  prospered,  a  propertied 
class  and  a  rich  leisured  class  sprang  up,  "But  the 
working  people  were  as  you  see  them  here  on  the 
road.    Are  you  surprised  they  rose  in  revolt?" 

I  told  him  that  Russia  seemed  to  be  concentrat- 
ing all  her  propaganda  on  the  next  generation,  and 
that  the  obsession  of  the  moment  was  education. 
De  la  Huerta  said  in  reply,  that  after  he  became 
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Governor  of  Sonora,  he  increased  the  schools  from 
eighty  to  four  hundred  and  twenty-seven  in  one 
year.  The  man  is  evidently  /full  of  ideas  and 
ideals,  but  he  has  not  a  free  hand.  He  referred  to 
the  criticism  of  the  world,  and  said  it  was  neces- 
sary to  show  what  effort  and  what  aims  there  were. 
I  told  him  that  what  was  far  more  convincing  than 
seeing  conditions  was  meeting  people.  Of  him- 
self, for  instance,  I  had  heard  great  criticism,  from 
a  certain  class.  But  it  was  only  necessary  to  meet 
him  to  see  that  he  was  a  sincere  idealist,  and  not 
in  the  least  as  the  world  described  him.  De  la 
Huerta  turned  to  the  mobile-faced  Malbran,  and 
said :  "There !  Let  your  diplomatic  mind  take  in  all 
this  ..."  I  said  laughingly,  that  I  thought  the 
Argentine  Minister  would  make  a  very  excellent 
Ambassador  to  Russia,  when  his  time  was  up  in 
Mexico,  but  the  others  said  his  initiation  had  only 
just  begun,  and  he  would  not  be  ready  for  quite  a 
while! 

El  Desirto  is  round  a  corner,  at  the  top  of  a 
mountain.  The  mountain  is  covered  with  trees, 
and  profuse  vegetation.  Our  car  climbed  and  zig- 
zagged and  encircled.  On  our  left  was  a  preci- 
pice. On  our  right  a  steep  straight  bank.  We 
were  within  half  a  mile  of  Desirto,  when  it  sud- 
denly began  to  pour  rain,  thunder  and  lightning 
and  hail,  as  it  only  can  in  the  mountains.  De  la 
Huerta  ordered  that  the  car  should  turn  round  and 

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go  back.  He  said  it  would  be  dangerous  to  attempt 
the  remainder  of  that  half  mile  in  the  rain.  I  was 
terribly  disappointed  at  not  getting  there  and 
thought  him  unnecessarily  fussy,  and  alarmist, 
but  .  .  .  trust  these  people  to  know  their  own 
country!  In  less  than  five  minutes,  what  had  been 
a  perfectly  smooth,  good,  dusty  road,  suddenly  be- 
came greasy  and  sticky,  so  that  our  car  skidded 
crabwise  down  the  hill.  Seeing  a  precipice  on  one 
side,  and  a  car  not  under  control  was  alarming  in 
the  extreme.  Behind  us  came  a  Ford,  and  it  also 
slid  drunkenly  down  the  road,  and  I  felt  that  no 
brakes  would  be  able  to  stop  it  bumping  us.  Mer- 
cifully for  us  it  went  sideways  into  the  ditch,  and 
mercifully  for  them  it  was  not  the  precipice  side! 
We  stopped  and  put  chains  on  round  our  wheels, 
— it  took  time.  De  la  Huerta  was  perfectly  calm 
and  philosophical  but  apologetic,  he  said  this  ad- 
dition from  above  was  not  part  of  his  programme! 
Even  with  chains  our  car  too  went  into  the  ditch, 
and  as  by  this  time  the  rain  had  slackened,  I  was 
delighted  to  get  out  and  walk,  but  the  road  was  so 
slippery  that  even  arm  in  arm,  the  Minister  and  I 
could  hardly  stand  up.  I  picked  a  variety  of  wild 
flowers,  and  watched  de  la  Huerta  surrounded  by 
clamoring  Indians  who  wanted  pesos  for  having 
helped  the  car  out  of  the  ditch — it  was  rather  an 
attractive  scene,  and  he  really  does  love  his  In- 
dians! I  say  "his"  Indians,  because  he  has  Indian 
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blood  in  his  veins,  but  he  told  me  also  that  his 
grandfather  was  a  Spaniard  from  Granada  and 
his  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  Polish  Jew,  born 
in  France.    It  is  a  glorious  mix-up. 

I  asked  him  if  it  would  be  possible  for  me  to 
stop  and  see  Villa  on  my  way  to  California,  and  if 
so  would  he  give  me  a  letter  of  introduction.  De 
la  Huerta  laughed,  he  said  it  would  be  quite  pos- 
sible and  that  with  a  letter  from  him  I  would  be 
quite  safe  .  .  .  (Safe — from  what?)  I  told  him 
I  mean  to  leave  in  about  ten  days.  "Yes,"  he  said, 
"if  the  Mexican  government  allows  you  to  go!"  I 
told  him  about  the  Mexican  Consul  in  New  York 
hesitating  to  vise  my  passport,  because  Mexico  did 
not  want  any  Bolsheviks,  and  I  said  how  surprised 
I  had  felt  at  Mexico  suddenly  becoming  so  re- 
spectable. 

"Do  you  consider  a  conservative  attitude  re- 
spectable?" he  asked,  adding:  "I  call  respectabil- 
ity having  a  sincere  and  independent  opinion,  and 
having  the  courage  to  acknowledge  it  .  .  ."  Then 
with  a  sudden  impulse  he  plucked  at  a  scarlet 
flower  in  my  hand,  one  that  I  had  gathered  among 
the  rocks,  and  half  audibly,  more  to  himself  than 
to  me,  he  said :  "That  represents  the  life  blood  of 
these  toiling  people  .  .  ." 

Later,  when  we  neared  home,  he  remarked: 
"Ah!  if  we  could  only  work  at  ease,  without  the 
shadow  of  that  spectre  in  the  North  .  .  ." 

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We  agreed  that  no  country  could  independently 
work  out  its  salvation,  except  Russia,  who  was  not 
overshadowed.  We  had  got  back  to  Mexico  City, 
and  I  was  nearing  my  'home'  when  suddenly  he 
asked:  "What  is  your  impression  of  Trotzky  .  .  .? 
I  told  him  I  had  compromised  myself  on  two  con- 
tinents shouting  his  praises! 

"And  Lenin  .  .  .?" 

I  told  him.  Then  came  this  astonishing  final 
question : 

"Is  Trotsky  a  good  man?" 

"From  what  point  of  view  good?" 

"Morally  .  .  ." 

I  could  not  embark  at  this  last  moment  upon 
a  discussion  of  what  are  morals  through  an  inter- 
preter. I  thought.  I  hesitated.  I  wondered,  as 
I  never  had  wondered  before,  about  Trotzky,  and 
then  I  admitted  that  so  far  as  I  knew,  Trotzky  was 
a  moral  man! 

Friday,  July  29,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

This  evening  Jose  Vasconselos  came  to  see  me 
and  we  talked  for  nearly  two  hours.  He  is  head 
of  the  Department  of  Education.  I  am  told  he  is 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  and  most  promising  men 
of  Mexico.  I  felt  that  a  talk  with  him  would  do 
much  to  help  me  to  understand  what  the  present 
Government  is  aiming  at,  and  what  effort  is  be- 
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ing  made  for  the  future  of  Mexico.  I  tackled 
him  at  once  very  frankly  about  his  education  sys- 
tem. I  said  to  him :  "The  bourgeois  tell  me  that  you 
have  caused  to  be  printed  20,000  copies  of  Shakes- 
peare and  Homer  for  illiterate  Indians,  who  can 
neither  read  nor  write." 

This  criticism  was  no  news  to  him,  he  proceeded 
to  explain  to  me  that  these  classics  were  for  the 
town  libraries,  and  there  were  10,000  towns.  "What 
would  you  put  in  the  libraries?"  he  asked — "What 
would  you  have  the  people  read  as  soon  as  they 
can  read?"  He  said  that  he  was  basing  his  system 
on  the  Carnegie  System,  and  that  during  one  of 
the  former  Revolutions  when  he  was  an  exile,  he 
lived  at  San  Antonio,  Texas.  There  he  went  into 
the  Public  Library  and  borrowed  an  edition  of 
Plato.  Every  book  that  is  loaned  is  inscribed  with 
the  name  and  date  of  the  person  to  whom  it  is 
loaned.  "In  one  year,  that  volume  of  Plato  had 
been  loaned  to  thirty  people,  and  that  was  San 
Antonio,  a  community  of  cowboys." 

He  explained  to  me  his  great  difficulty  in  getting 
enough  books  for  the  10,000  libraries.  He  said 
that  if  he  wrote  to  Madrid  for  10,000  volumes  of 
Don  Quixote,  they  could  only  supply  him  with 
500.  So  he  must  get  them  printed  himself.  He 
promised  me  a  complete  set  of  the  standard  lib- 
rary works.  This  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  elem- 
entary books  distributed  to  the  schools.     He  said 

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he  would  like  me  to  see,  in  some  of  the  little  towns 
how  keen  the  Indian  parents  are  on  education  for 
their  children. 

"When  the  next  generation  are  educated — then 
will  evolve  the  real  Socialist  State!"  he  said. 

He  referred  to  the  reign  of  Porfirio  Diaz  as 
having  accomplished  nothing  for  the  education  of 
the  masses.  His  ideas  about  social  reform  are 
Sparticist,  he  quoted  Liebknecht  and  said  that  he 
favored  the  plan  of  limited  fortunes,  rather  than 
communism,  as  the  one  seemed  to  him  to  kill  in- 
itiative, and  he  did  not  like  the  idea  of  being  a 
slave  to  the  State.  The  only  class  he  really 
despised  was  the  bourgeois,  "people  who  eat  three 
meals  a  day,  how  can  their,  brains  work — ?" 
People  who  assume  an  attitude  of  culture,  but  who 
never  open  a  book,  certainly  not  a  classic.  How 
dared  they  attempt  to  criticize!  "The  only  thing 
in  their  favor  in  this  country  is  that  at  least  they 
don't  have  any  part  in  the  affairs  of  the  govern- 
ment!" 

Vasconselos  is  a  queer  personality,  mixture  of 
Spanish  and  Mexican,  yet  he  said  he  cared  noth- 
ing for  the  civilization  of  the  Occident,  he  under- 
stood better  the  Orient,  and  followed  in  the  train 
of  Tagore,  whom  he  talked  of  with  great  admira- 
tion. I  asked  him  whether  on  the  whole  he  was 
satisfied  with  the  way  things  were  shaping  for 
Mexico,  and  he  said  he  was  certainly  satisfied. 
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That  in  his  opinion  revolutions  were  a  thing  of  the 
past,  there  were  a  stirring  and  an  awakening  all 
through  the  land. 

We  discussed  literature,  art,  social  reforms, 
education  of  children,  Russian  evolution,  the  com- 
promises of  Lenin,  the  activities  of  Trotzky,  the 
prejudices,  the  ignorances,  the  indifferences  of  the 
bourgeois,  the  national  spirit  of  Mexico,  the  planet 
we  live  in  and  the  ineptitude  of  humans  to  adapt 
themselves  to  it.  He  said  he  felt  it  was  almost  a 
crime  to  put  children  into  the  world:  "If  they  are 
stupid,  indifferent  and  incapable  of  thought  they 
are  little  better  than  the  brutes,  if  they  are  intellect- 
uals and  have  any  ideas  and  ideals  at  all,  then  they 
suffer  unendurably — No,  this  world,  even  with 
its  mountains  and  its  lakes  and  its  vegetation,  it  is 
no  place  for  humans  .  .  . !" 

Saturday,  July  30,  1921.    Puebla. 

We  left  Mexico  City  by  the  5  P.M.  train  for 
Puebla.  The  train  was  full  and  the  first  class  com- 
partment resembled  a  dirty  tramcar.  (I  qualify 
the  tram  car,  because  there  are  tramcars  that  are 
clean,  but  this  was  not.)  A  wedding  party  came 
to  see  off  a  honeymoon  couple.  They  were  a  quiet 
and  completely  self-absorbed  pair.  I  watched 
them  rather  unmercifully.  It  took  us  five  hours 
to  get  to  Puebla.  Long  before  that  time,  the  bride- 
groom, so  smartly  attired  in  frock  coat,  varnished 

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button  boots,  and  cloth  cap,  wearied  of  his  collar 
and  deposited  it  like  a  crown  on  his  bride's  knees. 
He  seemed  happier  so,  and  looked  much  more 
himself  with  a  handkerchief  round  his  neck. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  journey,  he  seemed  very 
impatient.  Behind  Dick  and  me  sat  a  large  cigar 
smoking  man,  who  in  a  foreign  accent  asked  if  we 
were  English.  He  was  from  Manchester,  and  had 
lived  in  Mexico  26  years!  He  told  us  what  hotel 
to  go  at  Puebla,  (we  had  reserved  no  rooms).  He 
insisted  on  buying  lemonade  and  chicken  for  us 
at  the  wayside  station.  Finally  he  took  possession 
of  our  luggage  and  said  he  would  himself  take  us 
to  our  hotel  in  his  car. 

He  was  met  on  the  platform  by  his  son,  and  in 
his  car  sat  his  wife  and  his  daughter.  I  tried  to 
back  out  discreetly  and  take  a  taxi,  but  they  were 
all  very  insistent,  and  kind.  Finally,  one  hotel 
being  full,  he  found  us  rooms  in  the  second.  I 
asked  him  his  name.  He  was  the  British  Vice 
Consul. 

July  31,  1921. 

Dick,  who  was  sleeping  with  me,  had  an  attack 
of  croup  so  that  I  was  awake  most  of  the  night.  At 
dawn  I  was  awakened  by  bugles  of  a  regiment 
riding  into  town,  besides  the  clanging  of  church 
bells,  and  the  crowing  of  cocks!  Shortly  after  that 
we  got  up. 
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Dick  insisted  on  looking  up  some  of  his  "ship 
friends"  who  live  in  the  town.  We  found  them, 
and  left  him  in  their  back  garden  playing  in  their 
wTater  tank.  It  was  a  great  chance  to  see  some  of 
the  churches,  and  drive  round  the  town,  and  do 
the  things  that  bore  Dick. 

The  town  is  overburdened  with  churches,  but 
their  exteriors  are  so  decorative  that  one  is  glad 
they  exist.  The  domes  are  tiled,  either  with  blue 
and  white  or  yellow.  They  glisten  in  the  sun  like 
enamel.  I  went  into  one  called  "Of  the  Company" 
and  happened  upon  a  service  with  a  cardinal.  At 
least,  I  suppose  he  was  a  cardinal.  He  was  dressed 
in  the  color  of  that  name.  This  crimson  melodra- 
matic figure  seemed  to  me  emblematical  of  the  in- 
quisitorial Church  of  Spain.  Sitting  all  over  the 
floor  were  Indian  women  with  their  babies,  and 
when  the  organ  subsided,  there  was  a  real  baby 
chorus. 

The  church  entrances  are  the  congregating 
places  (as  in  Italy)  of  the  most  wretched  beggars. 
I  could  not  help  wondering  why  a  man  with  no 
legs  submits  to  living  his  remaining  life  on  a  plank 
with  four  wheels ;  why  old  age  with  its  skin  wiz- 
ened like  a  walnut  can  bear  the  degradation  of  ex- 
treme filth,  and  of  asking  charity  on  bended  knee; 
and  why  a  blind  individual  can  roll  sightless  grey 
orbs  and  fix  them  on  me  while  so  doing.  Why  don't 
they  end  life?    Why  is  it  endurable?    But  almost 

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worse  in  my  estimation,  was  the  woman  who 
passed  me  by,  bent  double  by  an  enormous  load  on 
her  back,  and  dragged  down  by  a  baby  tied  in  a 
bundle  to  her  breast.  Must  she  bear  both  those 
burdens? 

At  midday,  there  was  supposed  to  be  a  "battle 
of  flowers."  I  have  seen  the  real  thing  on  the  Riv- 
iera, where  the  national  temperament  is  joyous. 
But  can  people  here  have  a  real  spontaneous  out- 
burst, when  the  big  sad-eyed  Indian  stands  at  the 
street  corner,  gaping  and  incapable  of  throwing 
off  the  melancholy  of  generations?  A  few  dressed- 
up  cars  appeared,  but  there  was  no  profuse  flower 
throwing.  Perhaps,  like  me,  the  Pueblans  were 
economizing.  Anyway,  it  was  so  dull  and  half- 
hearted that  we  took  a  train  to  San  Francisco. 

This  is  a  church  and  garden  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  city.  Soon  we  rambled  on,  up  and  up,  to  a 
hill  summit,  from  which  one  viewed  the  city  in 
the  plain,  and  Popocatapetl  with  its  snow  peak, 
emerging  through  a  bank  of  cloud.  It  was  beau- 
tiful on  our  hilltop,  wild,  deserted,  peaceful,  and 
the  persistent  Church  bells  came  to  us  distantly. 
We  had  been  told  by  Dick's  "ship  friends,"  that  it 
was  not  possible  to  go  outside  the  town  without  a 
man,  and  so  we  had  Dick.  He  found  a  dew  pond, 
and  was  perfectly  happy. 

Puebla  is  an  old  town  built  by  the  Spaniards.  It 
is  more  Mexican  than  Mexico  City.  There  are 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

more  sombrero'd  people  and  more  flocks  of  laden 
burros,  and  more  houses  with  little  "patios,"  than 
in  Mexico.  The  shops  are  more  attractive  because 
they  contain  j  Mexican  things,  instead'  of,  as  in 
Mexico  City,  inferior  foreign  goods,  in  a  desire 
to  be  cosmopolitan.  There  are  more  old  tiled 
houses  in  Puebla.  Fewer  people  speak  English. 
No  one  in  the  hotel  understands  anything.  This 
evening  Louise  tried  to  explain  to  a  group  of  five 
that  we  wanted  mineral  water.  They  did  not  un- 
derstand until  she  made  a  noise  of  a  bottle  ex- 
ploding. 

Monday,  August  i,  1921.    Puebla. 

We  caught  a  10  o'clock  train  to  Cholula.  It  was 
terribly  crowded,  but  we  managed  to  get  a  front 
seat  in  the  second  car. 

Halfway  along  the  line,  the  front  car  ran  off  the 
track.  It  took  at  least  an  hour  and  a  half  hard 
work  on  the  part  of  a  crowd  of  Indians,  to  get  it 
back  again.  They  alt  looked  so  clean  in  their 
white  linen  pajama  suits  (they  look  like  this)  tied 
round  the  waist  with  a  faded  and  fringed  blue  or 
red  sash,  and  the  absurdly  big  sombrero  hat,  and 
bare  feet.  One  wonders  how  a  working  man  can 
wear  white,  it  seems  so  impractical,  and  yet  these 
men  looked  cleaner  than  Dick  when  he  is  in  white, 
at  the  end  of  a  day!  How  can  they  dig  as  they  do, 
with  naked  feet  on  the  iron  spade? 

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We  sat  down  on  the  grass  in  a  broiling  sun  and 
watched  their  efforts  to  reinstate  the  car.  Pres- 
ently, on  his  private  trolley,  arrived  the  "traffic 
superintendent,"  a  young  stalwart  American,  who 
threw  off  his  coat,  displaying  a  khaki  shirt  and  a 
large  revolver  in  his  belt.  There  was  no  mistaking 
him  for  anything  but  an  American.  He  was  the 
rather  brutal,  square-jaw'ed  type.  He  contained  in 
his  face  everything  that  the  Latin  and  the  Indian 
lacked:  force,  determination,  power  to  command. 
Moreover,  he  was  broad-shouldered  and  a  head 
taller  than  anyone  else.  When  he  lifted  a  crowbar 
and  attempted  to  do  any  work  himself,  the  Indians 
fell  back  and  watched  him  openmouthed!  I  said 
things  to  myself  about  the  Anglo-Saxon  race. 

He  heard  me  call  Dick,  and  asked  me  instantly 
if  I  were  English.  He  seemed  glad  to  have  some- 
one to  talk  to.  I  asked  him  if  he  had  been  in  the 
war,  and  of  course  he  had,  been  at  Chateau 
Thierry,  and  in  every  other  fray.  He  said  he  was 
working  for  an  English  company  (which  the  tram- 
car  system  is),  and  that  nearly  all  the  superinten- 
dents and  heads  of  the  English  lines  were  Ameri- 
cans. I  was  surprised  at  this,  for  we  had  good 
colonizers,  and  if  we  can  get  on  with  natives  in 
India,  South  Africa,  Australia,  Nigeria,  etc.,  why 
not  with  Mexicans.  I  told  him  so.  He  explained 
that  the  Mexican  is  quite  different  to  work  with 
and  very  difficult;  that  he  is  very  sensitive  and 
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touchy,  and  that  he  will  only  work  with  good  will, 
"as  a  matter  of  fact"  he  said,  "I  have  not  their  good 
will  as  you  can  see  by  my  hip,"  and  he  patted  his 
revolver.  "Why  not?"  I  asked.  "They're  Bol- 
sheviks !"  he  explained,  and  unfortunately  for  me, 
at  that  moment,  the  car  went  back  onto  the  rails 
and  there  was  a  rush  for  the  seats.  We  secured  our 
same  front  row,  but  another  man  came  and  sat 
next  to  us,  who  had  not  hitherto  been  there.  I  dis- 
liked the  look  of  him,  and  before  we  had  gone  very 
far,  it  was  evident  he  was  drunk.  He  was  not  an 
Indian,  but  the  world-wide  white  type  that  can 
be  revolting  and  repulsive.  The  look  on  his  face 
made  me  feel  quite  sick.  I  felt  if  I  had  a  revolver 
it  would  have  been  an  awfully  good  thing  to  shoot 
him,  because  nobody  could  have  minded,  and  it 
so  obviously  would  have  been  a  helpful  thing  to 
do.  When  he  bent  across  Louise  and  bought  a 
couple  of  bananas  off  the  Indian  on  my  left,  and 
offered  them  to  Dick,  I  said  firmly  "no."  So  he 
looked  at  me,  a  terrible  look,  and  threw  the  two 
bananas  out  of  the  window,  and  the  change  he  got 
back  from  paying  for  them  followed  the  bananas. 
He  then  turned  round  and  entertained  the  whole 
car  behind  us,  at  our  expense.  Though,  what  he 
said  we  could  not  understand. 

Arrived  finally,  two  hours  late,  at  Cholula,  he 
was  walked  off  by  four  seemingly  very  devoted 
friends.    I  doubt  not  they  purposed  to  rid  him  of 

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the  rest  of  his  money  instead  of  letting  him  fling 
it  into  the  grass. 

In  the  middle  of  the  village  street  we  stood  still 
and  looked  up  and  down.  It  was  one  o'clock.  We 
had  brought  no  food  with  us  and  we  knew  not 
where  to  go,  nor  whom  to  ask.  A  fellow  traveller, 
respectably  dressed,  a  Mexican  farmer  probably 
and  who  could  speak  about  five  words  of  English 
came  to  our  rescue:  "What  you  want  .  .  .?"  he 
asked. 

A  restaurant?  He  shook  his  head!  A  Hotel?  He 
came  from  Cholula  but  had  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing.  Tourists  brought  their  food  with  them,  fie 
made  us  understand.  "But  I  will  ask"  and  he  went 
into  the  chemist  shop.  Surely,  there  was  a  res- 
taurant, down  the  road.  We  tracked  it  down,  he 
came  with  us.  The  street  was  formed  by  perfectly 
straight  barefronted  houses.  It  might  have  been 
an  Irish  village,  but  looking  through  doorways 
there  seemed  to  be  contained  in  it  a  whole  world 
of  gardens  and  patios.  We  entered  one  of  these, 
as  directed,  and  found  ourselves  in  a  clean  bare 
yard.  We  went  to  the  first  door  on  the  yard,  but  it 
was  a  bedroom.  The  second  door  was  the  restaur- 
ant, the  third  combined  kitchen  and  chicken  house. 
An  old  wizened,  bent  woman  came  forward  to 
greet  us,  and  two  pretty  young  Indian  girls.  Could 
she  give  us  food?    She  could. 

Soon? 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

Immediately. 
What  could  she  give  us? 

Some  huevos    (eggs)    and  some  came    (meat) 
with  potata.     Our  kind  cicerone  then  left  us,  ex- 
cusing himself,  he  had  business.    We  seated  our- 
selves in  the  primitive  room,  which  was  clean  and 
whitewashed,  and  floor  tiled.     They  laid  a  cloth 
for  us  which  was  clean  and  still  wet.    We  waited 
hardly  any  time  at  all  before  they  served  us  a  hot 
and  excellent  meal,  the  best  I  have  had  in  Mexico, 
and  for  two  pesos,  the  three  of  us.    But  the  wizened 
old  woman  was  much  concerned  that  she  could  not 
talk  with  us.     She  longed,  I  could  see,  to  know 
where  we  came  from,  and  she  kept  asking  why  our 
Signore  had  gone  away,  and  not  returned!  When 
her  two  habitual  customers  came  in  for  their  meals, 
she  began  great  discussion  with  them    about  us. 
We  were  a  great  diversion.    The  men  who  came 
in  were  not  Indians,  they  were  sullen  Mexicans. 
One  of  them  talked  to  the  little  Indian  serving 
girl  as  if  she  were  a  dog,  ordered  his  food  gruffly 
and  never  said  thank  you. 

Women  have  no  position  in  Mexico — they  are 
supposed  to  exist  solely  for  the  satisfaction  of  men. 
We  said  good  day,  and  "Mucho  gracias"  and 
sallied  forth  into  the  street  once  more.  Not  know- 
ing where  to  go,  nor  where  to  find  the  famous 
pyramid,  and  Dick  being  far  from  well,  I  decided 
to  go  to  the  nearest  place  in  reach.    This  happened 

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to  be  a  steep  hill  with  a  white  church  on  the  sum- 
mit.   It  had  been  a  beacon  to  us  for  miles  in  the 
plain  as  we  travelled  steadily  towards  it.     Slowly 
we  ascended  by  wide  low  stone  steps,  that  went 
winding  up  among  the  vegetation  and  wild  flowers. 
About  halfway  we  suddenly  heard  a  band  of  music, 
and  it  came  nearer  and  nearer.    Soon  there  came 
into  view  a  procession  of  white  £lad  sombrero'd 
Indians  playing  their  instruments  as  they  came 
down  the  winding  hill  steps.    The  pageant  did  not 
come  our  way,  but  passed  in  front  of  us,  and  cut 
down  into  a  steep  and  narrow  path,  and  were  lost 
to  view  among  the  shrub.   Taking  our  time  (for 
Dick  seemed  weak,  and  our  hearts  were  thumping 
somewhat,  as  they  always  do  with  the  slightest  ex- 
ertion at  this  altitude — )  we  eventually  reached  the 
summit.    It  seemed  utterly  deserted.    The  stillness 
was  uncanny.    The  church,  which  may  be  old  but 
had  a  renovated  and  very  newly  whitewashed  ap- 
pearance, had  tiled  domes  that  were  quite  beauti- 
ful.   Tall  cypresses,  as  in  Italy,  grew  on  the  terrace 
in  front.  There  was  a  rampart  with  seats  all  round 
the  terrace  edge.  The  climb  had  satisfied  my  desire, 
which  is  always  to  get  onto  a  height,  when  arriv- 
ing in  a  new  place,  in  order  to  survey  the  land  and 
'place  oneself'.    From  this  church  height  one  cer- 
tainly surveyed  the  country  for  miles.    Louise  and 
I  walked  round  and  round,  looking  everywhere  for 
anything  that  might  be  interpreted  as  a  pyramid. 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

But  we  never  satisfied  ourselves  on  that.  It  was 
not  until  we  got  back  in  the  evening  and  read  up 
the  guide  book,  that  I  learnt  that  was  a  pyramid 
we  were  on.  The  pagan  pyramid,  dedicated  to  the 
god  Queatzalcoatl,  on  the  summit  of  which  the 
Christians  had  built  their  church. 

While  thus  absorbed,  in  the  distant  view,  Dick 
disappeared.  When  I  looked  round  for  him  he 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  I  went  down  the  steep 
flight  of  steps  to  the  half  way  terrace  below,  and 
called.  Presently  the  little  figure  appeared  from 
above,  and  followed  me  down.  He  came  to  me 
with  a  pious  and  mysterious  look.  "Some  day"  he 
said,  "I'll  tell  you  what  I've  been  doing.  "  I  said, 
"I  must  know,  now,  at  once — do  tell  me  .  .  ."  He 
looked  shy,  and  then  explained  that  he  had  gone 
inside  the  church.  "It  was  quite  a  nice  church 
inside — there  were  none  of  those  awful  figures  like 
we've  seen, — you  know —  and  I  said  a  prayer  .  .  . 
knelt  down  .  .  .  right  up  by  the  steps  in  front  of  the 
railing.  Oh!  just  prayed  for  Teta-tee*  that  she 
might  come  back  to  us . . .  I"  It  was  so  unexpected. 
I  did  not  know  that  Dick  believed  in  God.  I  did 
not  know  he  wanted  Margaret  back  with  us  .  .  . 
but  there  in  the  stillness  of  the  great  Mexican 
plain,  high  up  on  the  hill  of  a  little  town  called 
Cholula,  Margaret  had  not  been  forgotten.  It 
seemed  almost  like  a  wireless  from  her. 


♦Margaret,  his  sister. 


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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

It  must  be  explained  that  Margaret  is  living  in 
England  with  her  father's  family.  She  is  being 
educated  with  a  little  cousin  her  same  age.  They 
share  a  French  governess,  have  a  villa  at  Cannes 
in  the  winter,  riding,  swimming,  gymnasium  and 
special  dancing  classes.  A  house  with  a  garden  in 
London,  dogs,  rabbits,  horses  and  birds,  Rolls 
Royce  cars,  servants  to  wait,  party  frocks,  lessons 
in  deportment,  and  all  the  things  that  are  neces- 
sary, I  am  told,  to  the'  perfect  bringing  up  of  a 
proper  little  girl.  Not  good  for  her,  they  assure  me, 
wild  trips  to  Mexico,  wild  talk  about  Russia, 
Americanization  in  New  York,  studio  environ- 
ment of  her  mother.  These  things  are  possible 
(though  not  desirable)  for  a  boy,  but  for  a  girl.  . .  . 
Well,  I  would  be  selfish  if  I  refused  for  her  all  the 
things  that  I  cannot  give  her.  Sometimes  my  soul 
rebels,  and  I  say  to  myself  "Two  rooms,  anywhere, 
however  humble,  but  both  children  to  share  my 
standard  of  life.  .  .  ."  Since  last  February  when 
she  saw  us  off  on  the  Aquitania  we  have  not  seen 
our  Margaret.  The  trip  to  Russia  and  the  work  it 
offered,  enabled  me  to  have  one  child  to  live  with 
me,  and  that  was  Dick,  who  had  lived  with  my 
parents  ever  since  he  was  born  and  I  had  to  work. 

Perhaps  there  existed  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart 
a  vague  hope  that  Mexico  might  give  me  back 
Margaret,  as  Russia  had  given  me  back  Dick. 
However  and  wherever  this  is  eventually  achieved, 
226 


MARGARET,  WHO   IS  BEING  BROUGHT  UP  IN  ENGLAND, 
LIKE   A   CONVENTIONALLY    PROPER   LITTLE    GIRL! 

(Photograph  by   Marceau) 


.  ... 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

there  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind  that  the  only  crown 
to  my  work  can  be  the  reunion  of  us  all  three. 
Until  I  can  build  up  a  home  and  an  environment 
worthy  of  Margaret,  I  have  achieved  no  success. 
It  is  an  incentive  to  work,  and  in  the  meanwhile 
one  must  not  lose  heart.  One  must  not  count,  at 
night,  the  months  that  have  passed  since  January. 
One  must  not  think  of  the  growth,  in  body,  mind 
and  soul,  of  the  child  who  is  out  of  sight.  One 
must  not  expect  her  to  be  just  as  one  left  her.  One 
must  not  think  too  much  about  her  at  all,  for  fear 
it  gets  too  hard — and  above  all  one  must  never  al- 
low oneself  to  think  on  lines  that  critics  would  de- 
scribe as  "sob-stuff." 

We  lay  on  our  hillside  which  was  really  a  pyra- 
mid side,  and  the  sun  burnt  as  I  tried  to  count  how 
many  churches  there  were  in  the  plain,  but  gave 
it  up  as  too  long  a  job.  Beautiful  old  toned  bells 
kept  ringing  around  and  below  us  from  every  di- 
rection. One  big  church  would  have  been  ample 
for  the  size  of  the  little  town,  and  money  and  labor 
better  spent  on  drainage  and  sanitation.  While 
thus  ruminating  a  cassocked  priest  came  down  the 
winding  way,  saying  his  prayers  out  loud,  out  of  a 
book.  By  him  walked  an  attendant  who  held  a 
linen  umbrella  over  his  head  to  shade  him.  So 
absorbed  was  he  in  his  prayers  that  he  never 
noticed  the  Indian  man  and  woman  who  got  up 
from  their  seat  under  the  tree  and  came  towards 

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him.  He  had  to  stop  on  his  way  when  they  threw 
themselves  down  on  their  knees  before  him.  He 
blessed  them  with  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  and  they 
remained  kneeling  and  crossing  themselves  until 
he  was  out  of  sight  and  sound. 

When  we  got  back  to  Puebla  at  5  o'clock,  Dick 
threw  himself  on  my  bed  all  of  a  heap.  I  took  his 
temperature — it  was  102 — I  undressed  him  and 
in  a  few  minutes  he  was  in  a  heavy  feverish  sleep. 

Twice  that  night  he  waked  me  suddenly  by 
loud  cries.  He  screamed  in  terror.  When  I  put 
the  light  on  he  looked  at  me  with  glassy  eyes  and 
did  not  know  me.  He  was  momentarily  delirious. 
Never  had  I  any  experience  of  such  a  thing.  I 
realized  in  a  flash  all  that  my  family  thought  of 
my  bringing  Dick  to  Mexico.  I  thought  of  Mar- 
garet and  of  the  contrast  of  her  proper  environ- 
ment. I  got  into  a  panic  and  resolved  that  if  it 
were  humanly  possible  for  him  to  travel,  Dick 
should  return  to  Mexico  by  the  6:30  train  next 
morning. 

At  five,  when  we  had  to  get  up,  he  was  tired  and 
weak,  but  his  fever  had  subsided. 

AUGUST  3,  1921.     Mexico  City. 

I  went  to  see  Mr.  Rameo  Martinez,  the  head  of 
the  Academia,  and  asked  him  kindly  to  send  a 
plaster  moulder  to  my  hotel  to  cast  the  little  sketch 
for  a  possible  Russian  Monument.  I  brought  it 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

from  New  York  to  finish  here.  I  had  a  perfectly 
excellent  Mexican  "boxer"  model,  broadshoul- 
dered  and  full  of  muscles,  that  Mr.  Martinez  pro- 
duced for  me,  thus  enabling  me  to  finish  it.  I  also 
asked  him  if  I  could  visit  his  open  air  school  out 
in  the  country,  at  Cherubosco,  which  he  accord- 
ingly invited  me  to  do. 

Edith  Bonilla  motored  me  out  there.  The  stu- 
dents work  in  a  patio.  Martinez'  idea  is  the  open 
air,  no  false  lights.  He  has  talked  to  me  too  of 
his  ambition  that  his  students  shall  be  Mexican, 
not  cosmopolitan,  nor  French  in  their  art.  The  idea 
is  right.  But  when  one  has  looked  around :  what 
is  Mexican  Art?  There  is  Toltec,  Maya,  Aztec 
art.  There  is  Spanish  (colonial)  evidenced  in 
architecture.  But  one  looks  in  vain  for  evidences 
of  modern  Mexican  Art.  At  the  school  some  per- 
fectly mediocre  studies  were  being  done  by  stu- 
dents who,  by  their  years,  should  have  been  far  be- 
yond what  they  were  doing.  There  were  mature 
men  painting  the  eternal  still  life  groups  of  pots 
and  oranges.  There  was  the  eternal  model,  an  old 
woman  sitting  holding  a  bowl.  Only  the  model 
in  this  instance^was  brown  instead  of  white.  I 
realized  with  overwhelming  weariness  the  futility 
of  schools.  ...  I  went  to  a  school  once.  A  night 
school.  I  was  paralysed.  I  achieved  nothing,  I 
was  the  most  unpromising  pupil  there.  Moreover 
I  hated  it  and  dreaded  it,  and  only  went  out  of 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

sheer  self-discipline.  This  is  at  a  timewhen  I  had 
quite  a  lot  of  commissions  to  work  at  in  my  own 
studio.  I  benefited  in  no  way  from  the  school, 
and  I  don't  believe  anyone  else  does.  At  best  it 
succeeds  in  turning  out  a  mould,  a  type,  a  "school." 
Only  once  in  a  million  times  does  one  arise,  who 
would  have  arisen  anyway,  anyhow,  anywhere.  Mr. 
Martinez,  who  has  worked  in  Paris  (why?)  who 
has  no  more  "the  soul  of  Mexico,"  or  the  depth  to 
realise  it,  will  work  in  vain,  open  air  or  indoor, 
unless  he  instils  some  spirit  into  those  students! 
Always  these  masters  point  to  a  student's  work 
and  with  pride  call  it  "du  Gauguin";  easy  enough 
to  make  a  bad  Gauguin.  I  wonder  on  whom  it  re- 
flects most  discredit:  Gauguin  or  the  student.  If 
only  the  teacher  would  say,  "My  God!  All  this  is 
awful,  let's  have  something  new.  .  .  ." 

There  was  one  sculptor  at  the  Country  School. 
His  Christian  name  was  Phidias,  not  his  fault,  and 
no  one  could  have  foreseen.  He  looked  white  and 
on  the  verge  of  suicide.  He  said  he  had  been 
working  in  Paris  .  .  .  but  that  he  had  done  nothing 
since.  He  had  been  back  six  months.  He  said 
there  were  no  sculptors  and  no  art  appreciation  in 
Mexico.  He  certainly  could  not,  even  if  he  would, 
have  worked  in  the  room  into  which  he  took  me. 
It  would  be  a  perfectly  fit  room  in  which  to  hang 
oneself.  He  looked  very  depressed, — I  fear  he 
will  starve. 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

I  came  back,  and  went  to  the  reception  of  the 
Pani's.  Like  last  time  full  of  cosmopolitans,  diplo- 
mats, from  South  America,  such  as  Uruguay, 
Guatamala  and  the  like,  and  also  Mr.  Malbran 
and  Mr.  Summerlin.  There  were  heaps  of  women 
and  girls,  sitting  in  rows,  and  men  groupedl  in 
doorways.  That  is  the  only  unconventional  part 
of  the  Pani  parties,  that  the  sexes  do  not  engage 
one  another  in  conversation.  Maybe  it  is  the  habit 
of  the  country. 

Today  they  had  for  diversion  (besides  the  jazz 
band,  which  did  bring  the  sexes  together  for  short 
intervals)  the  Indian  girl  who  has  won  the  beauty 
prize,  and  10,000  pesos  with  it.     She  was  in  her 
pretty  Indian  dress  and  certainly  looked  very  at- 
tractive,  though  more   Roumanian   than   Indian. 
Everyone  was  making  a  fuss  of  her,  and  she  was 
being  photographed  by  flashlight  with  Madame 
Pani,  and  the  highest  of  the  land.  This  little  peas- 
ant girl  was  perfectly  smiling  and  composed,  not  a 
bit  shy  or  awkward.     Her  naked  feet  reposed  on 
the  velvet  cushions  on  the  parquet  floor,  and  she 
seemed  to  gain  a  great  distinction  from  her  sur- 
roundings.    Behind   her  she  has   generations   of 
noble  Indian  race.    Her  dignity  and  calm  had  the 
effect  of  making  the  other  women  appear  rathei 
banal.  She  looked  as  though  a  young  Cortes  should 
fling  his  fame  and  fortune  at  her  feet! 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

Friday,  August  5,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

I  went  to  see  Pani  in  his  office  at  what  they  call 
"Relationes."  I  wanted  to  say  good-bye  to  him 
and  ask  his  help  in  getting  over  the  frontier.  His 
office  building  inside  looked  like  a  converted 
Palace.  I  had  to  go  through  a  large  gilt  room  that 
contained  beautiful  tables  with  a  life  sized  bust  on 
each,  presumably  of  former  Presidents  (so  they  do 
have  their  busts  done  sometimes!) 

I  asked  him  if  the  place  wTere  a  Palace,  and  he 
said  that  it  was  not,  but  merely  his  office.     I  sup- 
pose the  busts,  the  gilt  and  the  good  furniture,  etc., 
are  the  proofs  of  Pani's  culture.    I  like  Pani,  he  is 
not  interesting,  but  is  shrewd,  and  kind,  and  has  a 
sense  of  humor.    He  smiles  always,  even  on  official 
occasions.    Other  Ministers  smile  when  his  name 
is  mentioned.    This  because  he  likes  old  Masters, 
and  Bourgeoisie,  and  is  not  a  general,  and  is  an  op- 
portunist; at  least  he  might  be  considered  so  be- 
cause he  was  in  the  Carranza  Ministry,  and  has 
now  attached  himself  to  the  Obregon,  which  is  a 
rare  occurrence  in  this  country.     Howbeit,  Pani 
fits  his  post  very  well,  he  is  a  suave  diplomat,  and 
can  talk  a  few  languages.    I  confided  to  him  that 
I  am  not  going  off  to  Los  Angeles  on  Monday, 
having  fust  been  offered  a  trip  to  the  Tampico  oil 
fields.    He  agreed  it  was  well  worth  doing.    De  la 
Huerta  offered  to  facilitate  my  visit  to  Villa,  but 
I  have  not  time  to  do  both  so  I  have  chosen  oil. 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

Pani  was  charming  to  me,  said  that  whatever  I 
wanted  of  Mexico  he  would  have  done  for  me,  and 
he  hoped  to  see  me  in  New  York  when  "things  are 
settled." 

When  I  got  back  to  the  Hotel,  a  man  walked 
into  the  patio,  with  a  bunch  of  flowers.  It  was  a 
bunch  that  could  hardly  get  in  at  the  door,  and  the 
flowers  were  of  every  color  and  variety.  There 
were  exclamations  of  admiration  from  the  people 
sitting  around,  as  from  me  also,  and  then  I  was  told 
it  was  for  me,  the  sender  was  Don  Adolfo  de  la 
Huerta.  It  was  so  big  and  so  beautiful,  I  laid  it  on 
a  table  in  the  middle  of  my  sitting  room,  and  felt 
that  I  was  at  my  own  funeral,  but  at  least  enjoy- 
ing it.  A  Mexican  bunch  is  a  wonderful  thing,  a 
great  work  of  art.  The  flowers  are  wired  and 
tied.  Some  on  long  sticks  according  to  the  design 
— It  produces  a  wonderful  effect,  but  they  cannot 
be  kept  alive  unless  the  whole  construction  is 
picked  to  pieces,  and  then  oftentimes  it  is  dis- 
covered the  stems  are  too  short  to  put  in  water.  My 
flowers  were  roses,  dahlias,  choisias,  magnolia, 
tuberose  and  violets,  the  two  latter  rescued  and  put 
in  water.  Then  I  sat  down  and  wrote  to  de  la 
Huerta,  and  told  him  exactly  what  I  thought  of 
him,  straight  from  my  heart. 

Saturday,  August  6,  1921.    Mexico  City. 
I  was  lent  a  car,  which  called  at  the  Hotel  at 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

6:00  A.M.  We  did  not  start  till  seven,  and  it  was 
cold,  ever  so  cold,  but  the  road  was  beautiful.  I 
repeated  the  expedition  to  El  Desirto  and  having 
started  early  got  there  before  the  rains.  El 
Desirto  is  the  ruin  of  a  Carmelite  Convent.  It  is 
a  huge  rambling  place  "in  the  desert"  quite  isolated 
on  the  mountainside  amid  the  woods.  It  is  very 
beautiful,  but  I  thought  dismal  and  damp.  A 
Mexican  man  and  boy,  armed  us  with  candles, 
led  us  down  through  underground  passages  and 
cells  that  were  very  extensive  and  dripping  from 
the  vaulted  roofs  .  .  .  Dick  loved  it,  but  I  was  glad 
to  be  back  in  the  sunlight.  It  must  be  a  curious 
sensation  to  be  a  nun  or  a  monk,  to  live  secluded 
from  the  world,  in  peace  and  calm,  and  to  have 
no  further  anxiety  (unless  it  be  about  one's  soul — ) 
and  to  be  content  with  the  daily  round,  the  menial 
work.  I  suppose  it  requires  great  belief  and  no 
imagination.  We  came  back  down  the  mountain, 
stopping  to  pick  wild  flowers,  and  at  a  village  we 
found  a  house  that  gave  us  hot  milk,  for  which  we 
were  thankful.  Then  we  pursued  our  way  along  a 
road  whence  came  the  endless  procession  of  men, 
women  and  boys,  carrying  their  abnormal  loads 
into  town  for  sale.  It  led  us  through  a  valley  some 
miles  further  in  among  the  hills,  and  we  paused 
on  a  hillside  in  the  sun,  to  eat  our  combined  break- 
fast and  lunch.  From  our  selected  spot  we  viewed 
about  a  mile  of  road,  and  it  made  a  curious  im- 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

pression  upon  one  (as  de  la  Huerta  would  have 
wished).  This  never  ceasing  steady  stream  of 
human  beasts  of  burden!  It  suggested  the  evacua- 
tion of  a  town  by  refugees,  carrying  all  they  could 
take  away. 

Dick,  gathering  bunches  of  wild  penstimon  was 
joined  by  two  little  Indian  girls.     One  could  not 
have  been  more  than  three  years  old.    She  wore  a 
single  garment  of  coarse  linen.    It  reached  nearly 
to  her  little  barefeet,  was  sleeveless  and  cut  in  a 
big  square  decollete.     She  had  the  loveliest  little 
face,  huge  eyes  and  regular  features  .  .  .  and  as  she 
crushed  a  big  bunch  of  long  stemmed  penstimon 
in  her  arms,  as  if  it  might  have  been  a  baby,  she 
made  a  picture  that  one  longed  to  preserve.    But  a 
sadness  overwhelmed  me  at  the  thought  that  these 
little  young  things  on  the  flowery  hillside  were  sur- 
veying their  destiny,  as  it  passed  along  the  road 
below  them.     They  had  been  born  into  a  world 
where  early  in  life,  they  would  be  bent  double, 
by  the  burden  back  and  front,  of  merchandise  and 
baby,  and  there  would  seem  to  be  no  escape.  "Why 
do  they  submit?"  was  the  question  that  kept  rising 
in  my  heart.    Why  does  man,  woman  or  child  sub- 
mit; and  then  I  imagined  myself  in  their  place, 
and  I  got  the  answer:  If  my  father  had  always 
done  it,  and  my  mother  whilst  she  bore  me,  and  my 
father's    father    and    mother,    and   my   mother's, 
and  my  brother  already  accompanied  them,  and 

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the  neighbors  went  too,  and  they  talked  pantingly 
as  they  started  off  together,  or  rested  at  the  wayside 
places,  then  I  who  was  young  enough  to  be  left 
behind,  (and  not  so  young  as  to  be  a  burden  that 
must  be  carried  with  them) ,  I  would  know  that  my 
life  would  not  always  be  one  of  watching,  or  of 
gathering  flowers.  When  everyone  is  doing  it,  and 
it  is  in  your  tradition  and  in  your  environment, 
there  is  a  submission  to  conditions  that  no  one 
would  dream  of  breaking. 

We  went  for  a  walk  along  a  stream,  out  of  view 
of  the  saddening  road,  and  our  path  was  a  mosaic 
of  flowers,  and  the  shrubs  and  trees  grew  in  such  a 
way  that  it  might  have  been  a  carefully  planted 
and  tended  English  rock  garden. 

At  seven  o'clock  Mr.  Rubio  came  to  see  me.  Sent 
by  de  la  Huerta.  He  was  accompanied  by  a  well 
known  writer  called  Velazquez,  who  is  alsofa  poet. 
Rubio  delivered  into  my  hands  a  photograph  from 
the  Minister;  it  was  inscribed  in  a  way  that  only 
the  Spanish  language  lends  itself  to.  Apparently 
he  was  pleased  by  my  letter.  I  had  said  that  I  ap- 
preciated his  personality  and  his  aims,  that  a  few 
more  people  of  his  calibre  in  the  world,  and  there 
would  be  less  of  suffering  for  the  masses.  Rubio 
says  that  everything  was  arranged  for  General 
Calles  to  come  and  see  me  last  Thursday  at  seven, 
but  that  at  five,  they  telephoned  he  had  been  taken 
suddenly  ill,  in  his  office.  He  has  been  ill  ever 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

since.  I  had  already  heard  the  rumor  that  he 
had  been  poisoned.  Rubio  asked  why  I  was  leav- 
ing so  quickly.  I  explained  Dick  was  not  well.  I 
did  not  explain  that  I  had  finished  my  work.  To 
all  appearance  I  have  not  had  any! 

A  letter  has  just  come  from  the  President's  Sec- 
retary, inviting  Dick  and  me  to  Chapultepec  at 
five  on  Monday. 

Monday,  August  8,  1921.    Mexico  City. 

Our  last  day  in  Mexico  City,  we  ended  up  our 
riding  school  lessons  (which  we  have  had  nearly 
every  day  since  we've  been  here)  by  starting  out 
across  country  at  10  o'clock  A.M.  I  never  en- 
joyed anything  so  much.  We  went  through  Cha- 
pultepec Park  then  out  across  the  fields  and  gal- 
loped. Jumping  a  ditch  Dick  came  off,  but  he  was 
not  a  bit  frightened  and  with  good  presence  of 
mind  clung  to  the  reins  and  landed  on  his  feet.  Had 
he  fallen,  he  might  have  been  kicked  by  the  horses 
scrambling  up  the  bank.  I  was  very  pleased  with 
him.  Most  of  the  rest  of  the  day  was  spent  pack- 
ing, writing  little  notes  of  thanks  and  farewell  and 
dropping  them. 

At  five  o'clock,  Dick  and  I  drove  to  Chapultepec 
Castle  in  the  face  of  a  blinding  rain  and  thunder 
storm,  which  followed  after  a  dust  storm.  And 
ohl  it  was  cold. 

When  we  got  to  the  Castle  it  was  very  difficult 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

to  make  anyone  understand  that  I  wasn't  a  tourist, 
and  that  I  had  an  appointment  to  see  the  President. 
One  of  them  argued  with  me  that  what  was  the 
use,  the  President  couldn't  speak  English,  and  I 
couldn't  speak  Spanish.     I  wrote  my  name  on  a 
piece  of  paper  and  gestured  to  him  to  "take  it" — 
which  he  finally  did,  without  further  protest.    We 
were  then  asked  to  follow  upstairs,  and  were  shown 
into  the  reception  room  that  is  entered  from  the 
roof  garden.    We  waited  and  waited,  and  mean- 
while Dick,  who  had  heard  about  the  President 
having  lost  an  arm  plied  me  with  questions  about 
war.    Was  war  a  thing  that  we  had  always  with 
us,  and  would  he  go  to  it  when  he  grew  up?    I 
found  it  extremely  difficult  to  tell. 

Finally  Obregon  came  in,  very  pleasantly  and 
smilingly,  but  we  couldn't  talk,  only  a  few  words 
such  as  concerned  Dick's  age.    I  said  he  was  five, 
because  I  didn't  know  what  six  was  in  Spanish.  I 
understood  he  was  expecting  an  interpreter,  but  no 
interpreter  came,  although  we  wasted  three  quar- 
ters of  an  hour,  during  which  time  he  was  in  and 
out  of  the  room,  restless  and  expectant.    The  chil- 
dren came  in,  Alvaro  and  Alvarada,  aged  two  and 
four,  and  when  the  President  left  the  room,  Dick 
and  the  boy,  who  had  eyed  each  other  silently,  be- 
gan to  turn  summersaults.    Alvaro  did  it  first,  and 
then  the  damask  sofa  cushions  went  on  to  the  floor, 
and  when  the  President  returned  the  children  were 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

standing  on  their  heads,  and  coming  down  onto 
the  parquet  floor  with  a  thud  of  heels.    He  laughed 
heartily.    I  then  went  out  onto  the  f  reezingly  cold 
roof  terrace  to  see  if  that  interpreter  was  coming — 
instead,  I  beheld  Pani,  smiling  as  usual.     I  was 
glad  to  see  him  ...  I  told  him  our  plight  and  how 
difficult  it  was  .  .  .  Pani  however  had  come  on 
business,  and  he  and  the  President  were  closeted 
for  some  time.     When  he  came  out,  we  all  went 
down  stairs  to  the  front  door,  piled  into  a  car,  were 
driven  a  few  paces  through  the  pouring  rain  across 
the  courtyard,  to  another  door.     Here  he  went 
down  a  spiral  stair,  it  was  very  mysterious  and 
quaint — it  led  to  the  living  apartments  of  the  Obre- 
gons.     The  rooms  were  smaller  and  it  certainly 
was  more  habitable.    Madame  Obregon  met  us  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs.     She  is  one  of  those  simple 
pretty  young  Mexican  women,   grown   fat  pre- 
maturely (though  in  this  case,  as  an  infant  is  due 
in  October,  there  is  some  excuse  .  .  .)   a  woman 
devoted  to  her  husband  and  her  children  and  her 
home.  She  told  me  she  had  three  children  already, 
two,  three  and  four  years  old.     She  asked  about 
mine,  and  I  told  her  and  we  discussed  Dick — food 
and  internal  ailments.  She  talks  American-English 
very  well.    We  sat  in  a  small  room.    It  had  a  table 
in  the  middle  and  chairs  all  around.    In  the  middle 
of  the  table  was  a  silver  flute-shaped  vase  of  flow- 
ers on  a  Mexican  flag  "doyley"  ...  On  the  floor, 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

in  between  the  chairs,  were  large  spittoons,  quite 
useful  for  cigarette  ends.  Dick  dropped  his  cake 
into  one  and  roared  with  laughter.  The  little  two 
year  old  girl  sat  down  in  her  little  baby  arm  chair 
and  was  given  milk  out  of  a  baby's  bottle.  I  asked 
Mrs.  Obregon  if  she  wanted  a  boy  or  a  girl.  She 
wanted  a  girl,  but  her  husband  she  said  wanted 
another  boy.  He  did  not  like  girls,  they  had  such 
a  hard  time  in  the  world  he  said. 

I  thought  of  Mexican  girls,  and  agreed — yet  if 
the  girl  is  born  across  the  border  of  American 
citizenship,  how  different.  How  near  and  yet  how 
far  is  emancipation  for  the  Mexican  girl. 

I  was  at  the  castle  an  hour  and  a  half  altogether. 
The  President  had  the  use  of  Pani,  or  of  his  wife 
as  interpreters  if  he  wished.  But  he  said  nothing 
interesting,  and  asked  nothing.  I  have  an  explana- 
tion for  this  in  my  own  mind :  In  Mexico  it  is  not 
easy  for  a  woman  to  be  taken  seriously.  In  Eng- 
land, in  the  States  and  especially  in  Russia  (where 
among  the  Intellectuals  woman  is  on  a  perfect 
equality  with  men)  it  is  natural  that  clever  men 
should  think  it  worth  while  to  talk  to  a  woman  on 
subjects  of  mutual  interest.  But  in  Mexico  woman 
is  on  such  a  different  plane.  I  am  told  for  instance 
that  a  "feminist  movement"  exists,  but  consists 
barely  of  50  women!  For  the  rest,  they  are  the 
very  carefully  guarded  mothers  of  families,  and 
utterly  submissive  in  spirit.  I  shall  never  forget 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 


V 


the  way  Madame  Pani  asked  me,  the  day  I  lunched 
there :  "Are  you  here  in  our  country  all  alone  . . .?" 
Who  in  the  world  did  she  think  I  would  be  with. 
...? 

Tuesday,  August  9,  1921.  v 

Wednesday,  August  10, 1921. 

Two  days,  one  night  and  a  half  night  getting 
from  Mexico  to  Tampico.  We  had  a  "salon"  and 
so  were  not  too  uncomfortable.  Personally  I 
rather  enjoy  the  incident  of  travel  and  in  Mexico 
one  usually  does  not  travel  without  adventure. 
Usually  one  derails.  On  this  occasion  we  just 
stopped  (with  a  great  jerk)  for  a  couple  of  hours 
because  our  engine's  piston-rod  broke.  It  was  a 
bleak  and  dusty  place  where  maize  grew  and  not 
much  fun.  We  next  stopped  because  an  oil  box 
was  on  fire,  but  that  did  not  delay  us  greatly,  finally 
we  stopped  two  more  hours  because  the  train  in 
front  had  derailed.  We  walked  up  the  line  to  see 
what  had  happened,  the  engine  was  back  on  the 
rails,  and  a  good  many  Indians  were  at  work  mend- 
ing the  track.  I  looked  at  the  lines  with  an  igno- 
rant unprofessional  eye,  and  then  I  asked  questions 
.  .  .:  Should  the  wooden  sleepers  be  rotten  and 
splitting?  Should  the  screws  be  entirely  missing 
where  two  lines  were  riveted  together?  Should 
"pins"  stick  up  half  an  inch?  and  then  I  watched 
the  efforts  of  four  men  at  the  "points"  trying  to 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

close  the  lines.  They  pulled  at  levers,  and  finally 
hammered  the  line  into  place!  This  Railway  is 
owned  by  American  shareholders,  and  the  Mexi- 
can Government  has  not  given  it  back  yet,  because 
it  cannot  pay  the  damages  for  the  deterioration  it 
has  suffered  at  their  hands.  Meanwhile  it  deteri- 
orates more  every  day,  and  I  suppose  each  train 
that  passes  renders  the  track  more  dangerous  than 
the  last.  During  this  interval,  Dick,  who  found  a 
pool  in  a  ditch  went  into  bathe.  It  was  a  muddy 
pool  where  cattle  drink.  Dick  took  off  all  his 
clothes  and  swam  in  it.  Afterwards  the  sun  quickly 
dried  him  and  on  our  way  back  to  the  train  we 
called  on  an  Indian  lady  who  stood  at  her  home 
door.  She  was  old.  Her  home  was  made  trans- 
parently of  irregular  bamboo  sticks,  oddments  of 
dried  palmleaf  and  some  sacking.  The  roof  was 
thatched,  the  floor  was  mud.  Two  planks,  raised 
each  on  four  wooden  poles  with  a  piece  of  matting 
on  the  top  were  the  beds  for  herself  and  her  hus- 
band. A  primitive  cooker,  some  terra-cotta  cook- 
ing utensils,  and  "Our  Lady  of  Guadalupe"  in  one 
corner,  were  the  entire  contents.  Whatever  money 
they  earned  they  spent  neither  on  clothes  nor  house. 
Perhaps  it  went  entirely  on  food.  I  have  seen 
worse  in  Ireland.  But  in  a  country  where  the 
climate  is  kind  (we  were  some  considerable  dis- 
tance from  Mexico  City)  a  thatched  roof  is  almost 
all  one  needs.  Life  under  those  conditions  offers 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

little,  but  demands  less.  From  this  place  the  train 
went  rapidly  down  hill,  winding  back  and  forth 
round  the  mountain  sides.  We  were  in  the  rear 
coach  and  could  see  our  engine  going  round  hair- 
pin curves,  and  disappearing  into  tunnels!  The 
views,  which  were  a  mix  up  of  Switzerland  and 
Italy,  excelled  both.  The  most  beautiful  I've  ever 
seen.  Too  beautiful  to  take  in.  One  felt  humbled 
and  awed.  At  one  place,  as  the  train  came  round 
the  bend  of  a  mountain,  we  came  in  sight  of  a 
river  that  cascaded  for  about  half  a  mile  into  the 
valley  below.  I  exclaimed :  "Why  can't  one  live 
in  the  beautiful  spots  of  the  Earth,  instead  of  see- 
ing them  as  one  passes  by?"  And  I  decided  that  I 
would  not,  if  I  could  help  it,  leave  Mexico  until  I 
had  managed  somehow  to  return  to  this  place  to 
live  for  a  month,  however  primitively,  if  it  were 
possible  to  arrange  it. 

At  all  the  stations  where  we  stopped  there  was 
the  ever  present  crowd  of  vendors  offering  excellent 
cold  chicken,  hard  boiled  eggs,  hot  fried  potatoes, 
cakes  and  breads  of  every  description,  of  all  kinds 
of  fruits,  for  almost  nothing, — coffee,  pulque, 
lemonade  and  beer  to  drink.  At  some  of  the  min- 
ing stations  one  could  buy  small  polished  opals  for 
a  peso  each  (if  one  bargained)  carved  and  colored 
walking  sticks,  Indian  made  toys  and  doll's  furni- 
ture. Baskets  of  good  shape  woven  with  colors 
that  were  a  real  temptation !    Blind  beggars  played 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

music  and  sang  songs.  At  one  station,  a  blind  boy 
with  a  harp  was  led  around  by  his  mother  (a  grey- 
haired  Indian  woman  of  great  dignity  of  counte- 
nance) he  played  and  sang  about  500  verses  of  the 
Peons  ballad  to  Villa!  Towards  the  end  we  all 
knew  the  chorus  well  enough  to  join  in,  and  the 
train  finally  unable  to  wait  any  longer  steamed 
away,  leaving  him  still  monotonously  singing  the 
ballad  to  Villa! 

When  the  train  stopped  out  in  the  wild  country 
side,  the  track  was  alive  with  myriad  butterflies  of 
every  size  and  color,  especially  brimstone  ones.  It 
looked  like  an  allegorical  picture  of  Spring. 

We  arrived  in  Tampico  about  two  A.M.  on  the 
second  night. 

Thursday,  August  ii,  1921.    Tampico. 

When  I  came  down  to  breakfast  in  the  morning, 
I  did  not  recognize  the  quiet  empty  Hotel  that  I 
had  entered  in  the  small  hours  of  the  night.  The 
hall  was  thronged  with  white  suited,  sombrero'd 
men,  gun  on  hip.  They  were  every  type  and  age. 
There  was  not  a  single  woman  in  the  crowd.  I 
thought  I  had  dropped  into  a  film  play.  Look- 
ing out  into  the  sunlit  streets  small  buildings  met 
my  gaze,  an  open  fronted  restaurant, opposite,  and 
barber  shops  full  of  men  reclining  in  dental  chairs 
at  the  mercy  seemingly  of  someone  engaged  in  cut- 
ting their  throats.  Dick  asked  me  nervously,  "What 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

are  they  doing  to  that  poor  man  .  .  .?"  and  I  ex- 
plained they  would  do  it  to  him  some  day.  Every- 
thing seemed  open  to  the  street.  It  was  hot,  divinely 
hot.     Sitting  still  in  the  shade  with  no  exertion, 
one  had  to  mop  one's  forehead.    For  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  am  comfortably  warm,  and  Dick  half 
clad,  and  protesting  against  the  condition  of  his 
body  has  nevertheless  recovered  his  color,  his  ap- 
petite, and  his  mischievous  eye.    In  the  evening  we 
took  a  tram  (overcrowded  with  a  motly  collection 
of  workers)  to  a  place  half  an  hour  away,  called 
"Miramar."    Here  Dick  and  Louise  bathed  in  the 
surf.    I  felt  I  had  been  very  superior  (instead  of 
lazy)  for  looking  on,  when  they  came  out  black 
with  the  oil  which  floats  on  the  water.    They  had 
to  take  gasoline  shower  at  the  bath  house  to  get 
clean!    The  sunset  sky  was  very  lovely,  but  the 
little  wavelets  that  break  on  the  beach,  instead  of 
being  ripples  of  foam,  were  heavy  dark  and  slug- 
gish. 

I  have  said  that  everything  is  open  to  the  street: 
I  include  at  night  a  quarter  of  the  town  where 
ladies  sit  outside  their  open  lit  up  doorways,  dis- 
playing a  big  bedded  small  room  inside.  These 
houses  are  almost  standardised,  varying  only  in  the 
manner  of  their  lights.  Some  preferring  pink,  to 
the  cruder  unshaded  electric  globe.  From  within 
the  dancing  saloons  came  the  sound  of  music. 
Ladies  fanned  themselves  at  the  door.    Some  had 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

black  hair  and  faces  powdered  ashen  white.  But 
the  prevalent  taste  seemed  for  auburn  hair,  some 
color,  and  a  bright  pink  dress.  One  or  two  in 
night  attire  were  completely  and  transparently 
silhouetted  in  their  doorways.  The  streets  in  this 
district  being  thronged,  there  is  perfect  traffic 
superintendence,  and  the  tramcar  has  its  terminus 
in  this  very  midst.  Everything  in  this  respect 
being  made  easy  for  the  tourist. 

From  the  first  moment  I  felt  Tampico  is  a  town 
for  men. 

Friday,  August  12,  1921.    Tampico, 

We  started  off  in  the  morning  in  our  riding 
clothes  for  a  two  days'  trip  across  the  oil  fields. 
There  is  no  railway,  and  one  might  almost  say 
there  are  no  roads  to  take  one  over  the  80  kilo- 
meters to  the  little  "boom  oil  town"  of  Zacamixtle 
where  the  oil  wells  are. 

'  Happily  it  was  dry  and  hot  when  we  started  off, 
passing  first  of  all  through  the  camps  and  tanks  of 
the  Huesteca  Oil  Company,  which  is  Doheny's. 
Wherever  the  Huasteca  has  oil  stations  the  roads 
in  that  vicinity  are  good,  and  the  houses  of  the 
engineers  and  employees  are  well  built  and  nicely 
situated,  lawned  and  planted,  in  strong  contrast  to 
the  surrounding  jungle,  and  the  Indian  grass  huts 
and  their  squalor. 

Every  twenty  kilometers  along  the  way,  there 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

is  a  camp,  most  of  these  are  built  by  the  Founda- 
tion Company,  a  firm  that  builds  railways,  that 
lays  pipelines,  or  restores  Cathedrals.  There  seems 
to  be  in  fact  no  building  job  in  the  world  that  the 
Foundation  Company  does  not  take  on! 

At  these  camps  there  are  steam  heated  coils  to 
heat  the  oil  and  thin  it  so  that  it  passes  more  read- 
ily through  the  pipe  line  and  gigantic  pumps  to 
urge  it  along  its  course.    All  of  which  was  a  great 
surprise  to  me,  as  I  thought  the  oil  flowed  by  grav- 
ity from  the  wells  to  the  tank  ships  1    Our  road  dis- 
played at  intervals  rows  of  pipes  of  various  sizes, 
mostly  belonging  to  separate  companies,  and  the 
spirit  of  competition  was  in  the  atmosphere  even 
of  the  jungle.    Here  and  there  where  a  pipe  had 
leaked,  a  black  oil  pool  had  oozed  through  to  the 
surface.     In  places,  such  a  leakage  had  rotted  the 
road  and  made  it  impassable,  so  that  one  had  to 
drive  in  a  detour  through  the  shrub.     We  went 
through  every  kind  of  scenery,  but  the  woods,  of 
which  there  were  miles  and  miles,  were  luxuriant- 
ly tropical.    I  never  saw  such  a  variety  of  flowers, 
and  bush.     There  were  gnarled  tall  trees  on  the 
stems  of  which  scarlet  orchids  had  seeded  them- 
selves, and  from  the  branches  of  which  dry  grey 
moss  hung  down  in  long  festoons.    This  moss  is  a 
particular  industry  for  the  peasants,  who  use  it  to 
stuff  their  mattresses.    We  lunched  at  Camp  80,  in 
a  wooden  mosquito-protected  building,  where  the 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

primitive,  hardworking  Americans  gave  of  their 
hospitality.  The  roads  having  been  indescribable, 
and  the  car  ill  sprung,  the  day  sweltering  hot,  we 
were  tired  and  hungry.  Dick  humiliated  me  by 
complaining  loudly  that  the  omelette  was  only 
"skin"  and  had  no  inside.  It  certainly  was  not  the 
omelette  of  a  French  chef,  and  I  was  surprised  that 
Dick  knew  what  an  omelette  should  be  like.  He  is 
shaping  into  the  proverbial  Englishman,  who  cares 
what  he  eats.  After  lunch  I  gave  him  a  lecture  on 
manners,  and  on  the  art  of  accepting  hospitality, 
threatening  as  I  did  so  not  to  take  him  with  me  on 
my  next  trip  to  Russia  1 

At  4:30  wd  dined,  washed  and  rested  before 
pushing  onto  Zacamixtle.  This  bit  of  the  trip  in 
the  dark  was  the  roughest  of  all.  The  roads  were 
worse  and  wet.  We  got  stuck  in  a  village  street, 
the  mud  being  above  the  axle,  and  up  hill.  We  had 
to  be  pulled  out  by  another  car. 

For  miles  one  could  see  the  flaring  sky  and  one 
expected  to  come  upon  the  wells  at  the  crest  of 
each  hill,  yet  ever  there  seemed  to  be  another  hill 
between  us  and  the  lighted  sky.  Finally,  at  a  bend 
in  the  road,  we  came  upon  the  full  glory  of  it. 
Great  flares  10  or  12  feet  high  rising  from  stand- 
ards, where  they  have  burned  day  and  night  for 
years.  This  being  the  method  of  disposing  of  the 
superfluous  gases,  which  might  so  easily  be  put  to 
a  useful  purpose.  But  with  the  wild  scramble  to 
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make  money  out  of  the  liquid  "black  gold"  no  one 
has  time  to  think  of  utility  or  waste,  or  even  of  or- 
ganization. There  is  no  fraternity  in  "the  fields," 
no  sense  of  comradeship,  no  co-operation,  no  idea 
of  spending  anything  on  the  bit  of  land  that  has 
given  so  much.  There  prevails  one  idea,  and  that 
of  making  as  much  gold  as  possible  in  the  shortest 
space  of  time,  and  getting  away  with  it. 

These  hillsides  in  the  dusk  with  their  silhouettes 
of  drilling  towers,  of  palm  trees  and  grass  thatched 
bamboo  huts,  added  to  which  the  sickly  smell  of 
oil,  have  furnished  palaces  to  men  who  once  had 
nothing  and  diamond  crowns  to  women,  and  given 
them  the  power  of  kings  and  queens.  The  mud 
and  chaos,  the  breathless  energy  and  human  striv- 
ing, have  enriched  men  and  women  beyond  all 
dream. 

But  today,  the  world  being  saturated  in  the 
blood  of  bankrupting  war,  the  demand  for  oil  has 
enormously  subsided,  nor  can  the  price  be  paid. 
The  golden  liquid  has  sunk  temporarily  to  an 
eighth  of  its  value  of  eight  months  ago.  Neverthe- 
less there  is  no  respite  in  the  oil  fields.  The  oil 
can  be  stored,  the  oil  producers  can  afford  to  wait. 
So  new  towers  grow  up,  new  holes  are  bored.  Down 
into  the  bowels  ofvthe  earth  1800  feet  below  sea 
level  the  great  metal  shaft  is  drilled  with  the  full 
force  of  its  4,000  pounds  weight  until  it  bores 
through  into  the  illusive  river  of  oil  that  flows  way 

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down.  Albeit  in  the  harbor  a  few  ships  only  await 
its  flow  to  carry  it  to  the  four  corners  of  the  earth, 
the  oil  is  being  caught  and  caged,  forced,  heated, 
pumped  and  rushed  along  as  before.  In  fact, 
more  pipe  lines  and  more  giant  tanks  are  being 
hurriedly  built,  so  that  the  oil  can  wait  in  store 
until  the  markets  of  the  world  have  recovered.  So 
they  hurry,  hurry,  bore  and  build  and  store,  for  the 
"day"  of  oil  will  come  again  as  surely  as  the  sun 
rises  over  the  mountains.  Has  not  Lloyd  George 
said  what  he  will  do  to  the  British  coal  miners  now 
on  strike,  when  he  has  accumulated  and  organized 
oil  for  fuel  as  a  coal  substitute?  The  world  needs 
oil,  will  always  need  oil,  will  need  more  and  more 
oil,  oil  crude  and  oil  refined.  So  get  it,  keep  it, 
hold  it, — hurry.  .  .  . 

But  how  do  the  pipes,  the  boilers,  the  tanks  and 
the  camps,  the  provisions  and  the  materials  get  to 
the  fields?  What  is  this  super-human  effort  to 
achieve  the  seemingly  impossible?  Why  is  there 
not  a  pause  for  breath,  a  respite  from  the  rush,  why 
is  there  no  co-operation  among  the  companies? 
There  is  so  much  fraternity  among  workers,  why 
not  among  employers?  A  very  few  months  and 
just  a  little  of  this  quickly  made  gold  would  suffice 
to  achieve  a  common  road  for  the  common  wel- 
fare, or  to  build  a  railway,  and  obviate  this  strug- 
gle of  hired  humans  to  extricate  machinery  from  a 
bog.  Here  for  instance,  is  a  small  stretch  of  road, 
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called  "private."  It  can  close  its  gates  to  a  dozen 
cars  that  have  struggled  and  bumped  and  sweated 
through  miles  of  morass.  It  is  called  the  Aguila, 
because  that  company  built  it,  and  when  it  rains 
they  close  the  gate  to  preserve  the  roads'  condition. 
What  then — ?  Aguila's  cars  can  get  through,  but 
the  Corona,  Dutch  Shell,  Mexican  and  others  can 
well  go  back  and  struggle  through  a  longer  hellish 
way.  It  was  ten  o'clock  of  the  night  when  we 
made  Zacamixtle,  and  a  room  was  given  to  us  in 
the  staff  house.  A  little  clean  bare  wooden  room, 
with  a  thin  screen  partition  between  us  and  the 
noisy  card  playing  party  on  the  other  side.  Two 
beds,  for  Dick,  Louise  and  myself.  I  left  them 
and  went  out  to  see  the  town.  I  went  in  a  car, 
escorted  and  protected.  The  town  looked  like  the 
Chinese  towns  I  have  seen  in  pictures.  Some 
wooden  sheds,  some  open  stores,  thatched  bamboo 
huts  and  in  one  street  there  was  life, — the  rest  was 
dark.  We  looked  into  saloons  whence  came  the 
sound  of  music.  In  one  there  was  a  gambling  table 
and  a  crowd,  we  passed  on.  The  other  was  more 
full  of  sound  and  movement.  We  went  in,  took 
the  table  that  was  offered  us,  and  ordered  drinks. 
In  breeches  and  boots  I  was  conspicuous,  the  other 
women  being  half  naked  half-castes.  The  men 
were  tall,  strong,  clear-featured  American  boys,  in 
big  sombrero's,  blue  shirts  open  at  the  throat, 
breeches,  mud  and  oil  bespattered,  and  revolver  in 

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belt.  They  danced  a  perfect  fox  trot,  to  music  by 
four  men  on  an  instrument  that  looked  like  a  spinet, 
but  sounded  like  a  xylophone.  A  man  came  up  to 
our  table  and  asked  me  if  I  was  from  Minneapolis. 
I  was  about  to  explain  that  I  came  from  London, 
and  had  never  seen  Minneapolis  when  my  protec- 
tor intervened  sharply  with  a  rebuke  that  made  the 
Minneapolis  man  apologize  and  retreat.  I  was 
rather  resentful  at  his  being  so  summarily  snubbed, 
for  after  all  he  had,  as  he  said,  thought  he  had  met 
me  in  Minneapolis.  Another  man  at  the  next  table, 
drinking  his  beer  out  of  the  bottle,  tipped  it  up 
for  the  last  dregs,  and  as  he  did  so  turned  round  to 
me  and  when  the  bottle  was  drained  said  "Hullo!" 
He  wasn't  very  sober  and  I  disregarded  him.  Sud- 
denly my  protector  went  up  to  him  threateningly 
and  there  were  words.  As  the  evening  advanced 
the  scene  became  indescribable.  There  were  Mexi- 
cans and  there  were  Chinese  in  the  saloon,  and 
fragments  of  the  conversation  are  unrepeatable.  The 
two  best  dressed  women  in  the  room  became  con- 
spicuous. The  one  in  scarlet  chiffon,  who  leaning 
against  the  wall  had  slept,  heavily  drugged,  woke 
up  bad  tempered,  and  took  off  her  white  slipper 
to  beat  the  man  on  the  head  who  spoke  to  her.  The 
one  in  pink  chiffon  sang  noisily  as  she  sat  on  a 
man's  knee.  There  was  a  white  cotton  stocking 
kept  up  by  a  mauve  garter,  and  a  hiatus  of  brown 
skin  between  the  stocking  and  the  chiffon  dress. 
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All  the  women  with  white  shoes  were  mud  covered 
and  trodden  on.  Our  chauffeur  sat  at  our  table, 
and  attached  to  himself  a  highly  painted,  cynical 
faced  broad-bosomed  dancer.  She  joined  us  and 
her  conversation  with  him  was  translated  to  me 
in  an  undertone.  At  one  o'clock  there  being  scarce 
any  one  sober  in  the  room,  and  the  chiffon  gowns 
having  caught  their  prey  and  left,  we  left  too. 

My  impression  as  I  look  back,  in  spite  of  all  the 
dirt  and  drunkenness,  is  of  young  Americans  of 
fine  material,  hard  working  and  full  of  grit  and 
infinitely  superior  to  their  conditions  of  life.  These 
are  the  men  and  such  are  their  surroundings,  who 
give  their  best  years  for  the  benefit  of  the  oil  share- 
holders. 

Saturday,  August  13,  1921.    Zacamixtle. 

We  were  awakened  at  6  :oo  A.M.  by  the  sound  of 
men  whistling  as  they  dressed,  and  finally  the 
gramaphone  on  the  other  side  of  the  partition 
played  "When  Irish  Eyes  Are  Smiling"  and  I  got 
up,  looked  around  for  water  to  wash  in.  Outside 
on  the  verandah  (where  the  men  have  their  wash- 
stand!)  I  found  it  in  gasoline  tins.  We  had 
breakfast  at  the  "dining  room"  to  which  we 
motored  across  an  open  muddy  space.  The  break- 
fast, fried  eggs,  dried  bacon,  tinned  butter,  and 
canned  milk  was  excellent,  after  which  we  started 
homeward,  with  a  feeling  of  great  appreciation 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

for  the  simple  hospitality  of  these  splendid,  hard- 
working men.  They>had  not  much  to  offer,  and  it 
is  rare  indeed  that  a  woman  intrudes  upon  their 
lives  (I  believe  only  about  five  have  done  so)  but 
they  offer  ungrudgingly  all  they  have  and  make 
one  welcome.  I  felt  badly  that  two  people  had 
been  obliged  to  give  up  their  room  to  me  for  the 
night,  and  never  learnt  who  they  were  to  thank 
them. 

Passing  by  daylight  the  hills  with  their  drilling 
towers  that  we  had  only  seen  dimly  the  night  be- 
fore made  of  the  journey  a  new  one. 

As  we  passed  through  Amatlan  we  stopped,  and 
got  out  into  the  mud  to  photograph  lot  162.    This 
is  the  hillside  with  the  twelve  drilling  towers,  "der- 
ricks" as  they  are  called.     162  is  the  most  prolific 
lot.    It  was  at  this  point  that  the  field  was  threat- 
ened by  the  recent  fire,  and  it  is  estimated  that  from 
500,000  to  a  million  barrels  of  oil  were  lost.    I  was 
interested  to  hear  how  an  oil  well  on  fire  can  be 
extinguished,  but  in  order  to  understand,  we  first 
stopped  at  the  Huasteca  well,  known  as  Amatlan 
No.  6,  in  lot  228,  and  watched  it  being  drilled.  They 
had  reached  a  depth  of  1700  feet  and  expected  to 
strike  oil  at  about  2,000  feet.    A  well  is  drilled  by 
means  of  a  bit.    As  the  hole  is  bored  in,  it  is  filled 
up  by  steel  casing  pounds  up  and  down,  worked 
by  a  wooden  wheel.    When  a  depth  of  1800  feet 
below  sea  level  is  reached  in  a  proven  territory,  the 

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gas  is  encountered  and  the  drillers  know  they  will 
soon  strike  the  oil.  After  drilling  through  the 
final  strata,  the  oil  dome  is  reached  at  about  2,000 
feet  below  sea  level.  When  the  well  "comes  in" 
the  drillers  first  let  her  "clean  herself  out."  This 
means  that  the  gas  is  allowed  to  flow  freely  out  of 
the  well.  With  the  roar  and  rush  of  gas  come 
pebbles  and  stones,  in  many  cases  with  sufficient 
force  to  throw  the  drilling  tools  out  of  the  hole, 
and  wreck  the  derrick.  The  gas  is  very  inflamma- 
ble and  not  even  an  automobile  is  allowed  to  pass 
within  a  radius  of  300  metres  during  an  in-coming 
of  a  well.  After  the  tools  are  thrown  out,  a  great 
black  spray  of  oil  comes  up,  and  then  the  well  is 
"in." 

The  difficult  part  is  closing  in  jthe  well.  A 
valve  is  set  on  the  casing  with  a  stem  about  30  feet 
running  at  right  angles  to  the  casing,  and  usually 
the  wheel  that  turns  the  valve  steam  is  covered  by 
a  small  hut.  A  pressure  gauge  indicates  the  pres- 
sure of  the  oil,  and  from  this  the  engineers  calcu- 
late the  estimated  daily  flow. 

When  the  big  fire  was  raging  in  Amatlan,  the 
only  method  of  closing  the  well  was  to  tunnel  to 
the  casing,  cut  the  casing  and  insert  a  valve  so  as  to 
shut  off  the  supply  of  oil  that  was  feeding  the  flame. 
This  was  accomplished  by  one  man,  who,  by  means 
of  an  asbestos  suit,  and  tunnel,  successfuly  accomp- 
lished the  greater  part  of  the  work  himself.     It 

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is  claimed  that  the  Oil  Companies  had  about  5,000 
men  at  work,  throwing  up  earthen  dykes  to  prevent 
a  spread. 

Craving  for  information,  with  the  earnest  desire 
of  the  ignorant  person  to  become  knowledgable, 
I  asked  if  the  oil  from  these  wells  reached  its  base 
through  common  pipe  carriers,  as  in  the  United 
States.  But  this  is  not  the  case  here.  Each  in- 
dividual company  runs  its  pipe  lines  at  enormous 
expense,  a  procedure  which  is  well  afforded  by 
the  big  companies,  but  which  is  paralyzingly  detri- 
mental to  the  smaller  ones.  Only  the  very  rich  can 
afford  the  luxury  of  enriching  themselves. 

From  Amatlan  wre  proceeded  some  miles,  to  the 
great  crater  known  as  Las  Bocas,  which  took  fire 
and  burnt  for  nine  years.  In  those  days  the  means 
of  extinguishing  a  burning  oil  well  had  not  been 
evolved.  The  narrow  neck  had  burnt  and  burnt 
until  it  had  converted  itself  into  a  crater  the  size  of 
a  lake.  From  the  surface  of  the  sluggish  waters, 
gas  was  still  rising  and  the  water  bubbling  and 
hissing  in  eddies.  All  round  the  crater  the  trees 
stood  grey  and  lifeless,  as  in  some  districts  of  the 
battlefields  in  France.  This,  as  in  France,  being 
caused  by  poisonous  gas  which  has  killed  all  vege- 
tation, and  left  a  wood  standing  like  a  bare  skele- 
ton. 

Near  this  place  we  met  a  native,  with  a  gun 
dragging  along  a  baby  coyote.  He  had  wounded  it 
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in  the  hind  legs,  and  the  animal  unable  to  walk,  was 
being  towed  along  the  ground  by  means  of  a  wil- 
low branch  tied  round  its  neck.  We  asked  the 
man  why  he  did  not  kill  it.  He  answered  that  he 
wanted  to  bring  it  "alive  to  the  village,  to  show  to 
the  people."  We  argued  that  it  was  dying.  The 
native  was  smiling  and  unmoved.  We  offered  him 
a  peso  to  shoot  it  immediately.  He  continued  to 
smile.  We  offered  him  five  pesos,  he  remained  un- 
moved. "It  will  be  dead  in  an  hour,  and  you  will 
be  without  your  five  pesos."  But  he  smilingly  went 
on  his  way,  dragging  the  bulging  eyed,  panting, 
dying  baby  coyote  with  its  limp  broken  legs.  It 
wasn't  that  he  was  cruel,  he  was  merely  a  brute 
with  no  understanding. 

We  pushed  on  to  the  camp  known  as  Kilometer 
40,  for  lunch,  and  here,  one  of  the  first  things  they 
showed  me  in  the  Superintendent's  quarters,  was  a 
Hearst  magazine  of  July  12th,  with  a  review  and 
long  quotation  of  Clare  Sheridan's  Russian  diary 
with  photographs  of  self,  with  right  and  lefts  of 
Lenin  and  Trotzky!  I  was  sure  well  known  by 
the  staff  at  this  point. 

During  our  trip  from  Kilometer  40  to  Kilometer 
80,  we  passed  the  worst  of  the  road,  and  I  counted 
six  cars  bogged!  The  same  fate  did  not  befall  us, 
because  we  had  an  extremely  brilliant  driver,  but 
we  had  to  halt  for  some  time  owing  to  the  stoppage 
congestion.     The  car  in  front  of  us  contained  a 

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Mexican  family  moving — on  the  back  of  their 
car,  uncaged,  sat  a  little  green  parrot.  It  looked 
so  wise  and  talked  so  much  and  laughed  heartily. 
It  sat  on  my  shoulder  for  some  time  and  stroked  my 
cheek  with  its  yellow  head,  and  said  things  to  me 
in  Spanish.  And  when  I  answered  it  in  English, 
it  put  its  head  on  one  side  and  with  the  most  en- 
trancing Latin  accent  said  "Right-o!"  I  made 
up  my  mind  that  I  must  have  a  parrot,  a  green  one 
with  a  yellow  head.     They  grow  wild  here. 

The  trip  was  without  further  incident  until  we 
reached  Kilometer  80,  where  we  had  a  bucket  full 
of  lemonade  and  some  thick  cheese  sandwiches  and 
from  there  in  the  dark  we  made  for  the  Huasteca 
Terminal,  crossed  the  river  in  a  motor  and  got  back 
to  Tampico  about  9:30  P.M. 

During  these  two  days,  I  passed  through  the  oil 
wells  of  the  following  companies,  operating  in  the 
Southern  fields: 

Huasteca  Petroleum  Company  (Doheny  Company). 
Mexican    Eagle,  /or   what    is    known  !in    Mexico    as 
"Cid     Mexicana     de     Petroleo,     El    Aguola"     (English 
interests). 

La  Corona,  or  what  is  known  in  Mexico  as  "N.  V. 
Petroleum  Maatschappij  La  Corona"  (Royal  Dutch  Shell 
— Dutch  Interest). 

Mexican  Gulf  Oil  Co.   (Mellon  Bros.,  Pittsburgh). 
Island  Oil  Company  (Leach  &  Co.). 
International  Petroleum  Company  (John  Hays  Ham- 
mond). 

The  Texas  Company. 

Transcontinental  Petroleum  Company  (owned  by  the 
Standard  Oil  Company — J.  D.  Rockefeller). 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

Sunday,  August  14,  1921.    Tampico. 

Spent  ten  hours  on  a  small  cabin  launch  going 
up  the  Panuco  River  and  the  Tamesi  with  which  it  / 

junctions.  At  the  ranch  on  Don  Juan  del  Rio  we 
stopped  to  bathe.  It  was  very  hot  and  very  beauti- 
ful. We  passed  miles  and  miles  of  banana  plan- 
tations and  Indians  in  their  frail  overloaded  "dug- 
outs" who  signalled  to  us  to  slow  up  for  fear  our 
"wash"  would  swamp  them.  Arm  chairs  and  awn- 
ings were  prepared  for  us,  but  with  colored  glasses 
to  protect  my  eyes,  I  preferred  sitting  up  in  the 
ship's  bow  all  day  in  full  glare  of  the  sun.  It  beat 
down  upon  me,  it  burnt  me,  mercilessly,  splendid- 
ly. I  felt  as  if  all  the  cold  and  fogs  of  England's 
winters  that  had  seemed  so  long,  all  the  spring- 
times of  England  that  had  failed,  all  the  sum- 
mers of  England  that  had  been  a  disappointment, 
and  all  the  autumns  that  had  eaten  damp  into  the 
marrow  of  my  bones,  were  being  burnt  and 
branded  and  cauterized. 

Monday,  August  15,  1921.    Tampico. 

We  left  Tampico  by  automobile  for  the  Panuco 
oil  field,  and  when  we  reached  a  point  about  20 
kilometers  east  of  Panuco  we  had  to  abandon  our 
auto  in  a  bog  and  walk.  Our  luggage  consisted  of 
a  gun,  two  kodaks,  three  coats  and  a  heavy  money 
bag  which  we  have  never  dared  to  leave  out  of 
sight.    The  chauffeur  when  we  abandoned  him  to  v 

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his  car,  had  assured  us  that  Panuco  was  four  miles 
away,  "Just  over  the  hill "  We  started  trustingly 
and  full  of  energy,  two  kilometers  rough  walking 
over  the  sunbeaten  shadeless  plain  was  a  bad  start. 
We  were  overcome  with  thirst  and  Dick  had  to  be 
carried  on  our  backs  in  turn.  The  heat  of  the 
sun  seemed  to  increase,  the  Kodaks  became  a  curse, 
the  coats  a  mockery.  We  sweated  and  limped  and 
panted  over  the  plain,  and  up  the  hill  in  the  merci- 
ful shade  of  trees  to  the  crest.  No  human  habita- 
tion however  was  visible;  down  the  hill  we  went 
and  up  the  next.  Still  no  sign,  yet  another  hill. 
Dick  became  peevish  and  complaining,  everyone 
too  tired  to  carry  him,  and  the  springs  in  the  hol- 
lows all  dried  up.  At  the  foot  of  the  third  hill  there 
was  a  junction  of  four  primitive  roads.  Our  guide 
left  us  in  a  heap,  at  the  crossroads,  gun  loaded  and 
full  cock  and  with  orders  not  to  shoot  at  sight,  but 
only  on  provocation,  and  he  went  in  search  of 
water.  I  took  from  my  trouser  pocket  my  little 
jade  god,  the  one  that  looks  like  Trotzky  and  is 
2000  years  old.  He  is  supposed  to  be  the  god  who 
protects  one  from  thirst.  I  stood  him  up  in  the 
sand  and  I  begged  him  to  send  water.  "Are  you  a 
curse  or  a  blessing?"  I  asked  him.  "Never  before 
have  I  carried  you  on  me,  never  have  I  suffered 
from  such  thirst — be  kind  and  send  us,  send  us 
water!" 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  the  sun  was  setting, 
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we  heard  a  distant  sound  of  steps  and  voices  and 
.here  our  guide  came  running  towards  us,  and  a 
native  boy  with  a  bucket  at  his  side.  We  all  three 
got  up  and  ran  to  meet  him,  ran  stumblingly  and 
speechlessly. 

"Shut  your  eyes  while  you  drink  it .  .  ."  we  were 
told.  Womanlike,  I  looked,  it  was  brown  muddy 
opaque  rainwater  washed  down  from  the  hills  .  .  . 
we  drank — and  drank,  one  of  us  coughed  up  a 
small  live  fish,  spat  it  out  and  drank  again.  Never 
ever  had  any  drink  tasted  so  good!  And  where 
was  Panuco?  Where  the  Corona  Camp?  15  min- 
utes away,  said  the  native  boy. 

"Come  and  show  us  .  .  ." 

He  would  not. 

"Five — ten  pesos  if  you  will  lead  us.  .  .  ." 

"No  I  must  milk  the  cows." 

"The  cows  won't  hurt  for  thirty  minutes.  .  .  ." 

"It  is  getting  night.  .  .  ." 

"You  can  find  your  way  in  the  dark." 

"My  father  is  out.  .  .  ." 

We  followed  the  direction  he  pointed  out — we 
passed  the  Salvasuchi,  Tampuche,  Temante  and 
Isleta  fields.  We  passed  them,  I  did  not  see  them, 
my  eyes  were  glued  to  the  track,  picking  my  way, 
and  my  mind  concentrated  on  the  effort  of  "getting 
along."  A  little  brandy,  and  even  Dick  shouted 
"no"  when  asked  if  we  were  downhearted.  In  the 
face  of  a  lemon  and  sunset  sky  we  were  ferried  in 

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a  dugout  across  the  Panuco  River  from  the  Tam- 
aulipas  to  the  Vera  Cruz  side.  An  Indian  at  this 
juncture  consented  to  escort  us  and  carried  our  pos- 
sessions. He  said  it  was  only  two  kilometers  more, 
but  we  seemed  to  walk  for  two  more  hours  along 
the  river  bank,  in  single  silent  file,  through  maize 
or  cotton  up  to  our  waists,  or  banana  plantations 
over  our  heads.  At  least  we  were  not  thirsty,  and 
the  sun  was  no  more.  The  fire-flies  danced  around 
and  before  us,  and  the  moon  rose  up  in  all  her 
glory,  making  shadows  among  the  banana  leaves. 
We  started  walking  at  3  130,  it  was  9 130  when  we 
tottered  into  the  Corona  camp  and  the  Superin- 
tendent gave  us  his  house  for  the  night.  The  wife 
of  one  of  the  staff  took  us  to  her  house  to  give  us 
supper.  I  remember  vaguely  the  mental  effort  of 
trying  to  display  normal  appreciation  of  her  kind- 
ness in  tgg  frying.  But  before  the  eggs  were  on 
the  table  my  head  was  in  my  plate  and  I  was  fast 
asleep. 

Tuesday,  August  16,  1921.    Corona  Camp. 

My  bed  facing  the  open  window  on  the  river, 
where  the  sun  was  rising,  waked  me  at  five.  I  got 
up  stiffly  and  dressed  at  once.  Found  my  host  on 
the  verandah  and  had  a  little  conversation  with 
him.  He  was  a  Swiss,  and  wef  talked  French. 
Round  his  neck  was  a  great  scar.  I  learned  after- 
wards that  he  had  been  hung  by  order  of  Carranza 
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and  was  cut  down  just  in  time  before  he  could  die. 
We  breakfasted  at  six  and  our  host  drove  us  to  the 
railway  station,  three  kilometres  away,  where  we 
caught  the  6:30  train  full  of  workingmen;  among 
whom  in  appearance  we  seemed  quite  in  keeping. 
Dick  was  rather  sleepy  and  said  he  felt  sick,  but 
otherwise  showed  no  signs  of  the  strain  of  the  night 
before.  He  may  have  been  carried  at  most  two 
kilometers,  for  the  rest  of  18  he  had  walked  it  gal- 
lantly, and  (after  the  sun  had  gone  down)  uncom- 
plainingly. His  powers  of  endurance  before  his 
sixth  birthday  made  me  extremely  proud,  and  very 
hopeful  of  him. 

Wednesday,  August  17,  1921. 

Got  up  at  5  130  A.  M.  Waked  Louise  and  Dick, 
breakfasted  at  6:15  and  then  proceeded  in  a  car  to 
catch  the  seven  o'clock  train.  We  started  a  little 
late  and  half  way  the  car  stopped  in  a  perfectly 
deserted  street.  The  panic  and  agitation  in  which 
I  finally  arrived  at  the  station,  to  catch  the  only 
Mexico  City  express  of  the  day  is  indescribable. 
My  destination  was  not  Mexico,  but  Micos,  about 
ten  hours  away  where  I  had  contrived  (as  I 
planned)  to  camp  by  the  falls.  All  the  camp  gear 
had  gone  on  ahead,  but  waiting  for  me  at  the  seven 
o'clock  train  were  my  four  friends.  Each  of 
them  director,  superintendent,  or  some  occupation 
of  the  sort  in  a  Tampico  firm.    One  an  Irishman, 

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one  a  Scotchman,  one  a  Canadian  and  the  other  a 
Mexican.  They  were  arranging  for  me,  and  or- 
ganizing my  camp,  and  joining  it  for  a  holiday. 
They  greeted  me  at  the  station  by  the  calming  as- 
surance that  although  it  was  seven  o'clock,  the  train 
would  not  leave  for  an  hour.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
it  did  not  start  for  two  hours  and  a  half.  I  had 
gotten  up  at  five  to  catch  a  train  that  left  at  9 130. 
Meanwhile  we  were  turned  out  of  our  compart- 
ment while  it  was  hermetically  sealed  and  fumi- 
gated— the  enforced  legislation  for  every  train 
from  a  bubonic  plague  district.  Dick  walked 
around  in  the  pouring  rain  with  a  friend  and 
bought  a  baby  parrot  without  a  cage.  The  flies 
were  such  as  Tampico  alone  can  boast.  When  we 
did  start,  the  engine  broke  down  six  miles  out.  It 
was  nightfall  when  we  reached  Micos,  a  primi- 
tive little  country  station,  in  the  middle  of  a  village 
street.  Here  we  were  met  by  one  who  had  gone 
ahead  to  select  our  camp.  He  said  he  had  not  had 
time  to  get  things  fixed,  and  that  meanwhile  he 
was  renting  for  us  a  house  in  the  village.  Leaving 
the  others  to  go  to  the  house  I  walked  back  along 
the  railway  line  with  the  Irishman  to  view  the 
falls,  and  select  a  site.  It  was  not  easy,  as  the  bank 
goes  sheer  down  from  the  railway  to  the  falls  and 
sheer  up  from  the  falls  to  the  mountain  top,  both 
sides  densely  covered  with  virgin  vegetation.  In 
this  place  there  are  no  roads,  peasants  load  their 
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donkeys  and  mules  and  drive  them  along  the  single 
file  tracks.  There  are  no  churches.  The  Spaniards 
never  penetrated  into  this  wilderness,  the  blood  of 
the  people  is  pure  undiluted  Indian.  The  railway 
has  brought  to  them  whatever  they  know  of  civi- 
lization. At  the  top  of  a  stony  track  leading  down 
to  the  valley,  two  natives,  man  and  wife,  bade  us 
"Buenos  Noches."  We  asked  them  where  they 
lived.  They  pointed  way  down  below  to  a  thatched 
roof  and  in  gallant  native  fashion  "There  is  your 
house"  they  said  to  us,  assuring  us  that  if  we 
pitched  our  camp  there,  we  could  get  eggs,  fresh 
milk,  a  child  for  Dick  to  play  with,  and  moreover 
a  boat,  to  ferry  the  river.  We  took  some  cigarettes 
from  them  and  walked  back,  reaching  our  village 
house  after  nightfall.  It  stood  on  a  bank  above  the 
railway.  It  was,  of  course,  unfurnished.  Three 
beds  had  been  put  in  one  room  for  Dick,  Louise 
and  myself.  The  walls  were  of  dried  mud,  white- 
washed. The  floor  was  of  wet  mud  into  which  the 
legs  of  the  bed  sank  unevenly.  Our  mosquito  nets 
hung  from  a  transparent  ceiling  of  bamboo 
through  which  one  could  see  the  thatch.  The  next 
room  was  full  of  beds  for  our  friends  and  across 
a  patio,  that  was  like  the  yard  of  a  pig  pen,  we 
walked  on  duck  boards  to  the  kitchen  and  dining 
room.  I  slept  with  my  front  door  wide  open,  the 
moon  streaming  in,  the  largest  cockroach  I  have 
ever  seen  on  the  wall,  and  an  upturned  cube  box 

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next  to  me  with  my  clock  and  Margaret's  photo- 
graph. The  conditions  were  so  novel  and  inter- 
esting that  one  forgot  the  discomfort.  Every  man 
in  the  next  room  (there  was  an  open  doorway  over 
which  I  hung  a  sheet  for  privacy)  snored  like  two 
men  each.  The  village  dogs  held  concert  in  the 
night  and  woke  up  all  the  cocks.  Two  trains  came 
in  to  the  station  whistling  and  the  mountains  re- 
echoed. The  insects  made  an  unceasing  sound,  as 
of  machinery,  and  at  five  the  next  morning  I  got  up. 

Thursday,  August  18,  1921.  Micos. 

The  village  consists  of  a  main  street,  mud  houses, 
thatched  roofs  and  three  'open'  stores,  a  'cake  shop' 
and  a  drinking  house.  At  the  store  I  bought 
leather  sandals,  straw  hats,  scarlet  neckerchief,  red 
fringed  sash,  loosely  woven  scarlet  wool  material 
by  the  yard  and  a  six  shooter.  While  thus  absorbed 
an  Indian  fell  through  the  doorway  onto  the  floor, 
drunk.  His  face  was  pathetically  imbecile.  He 
pawed  the  air  and  emitted  noises  and  grunts  like 
a  frightened  animal.  The  storekeeper  picked  him 
up  and  led  him  gently  out  just  so  far  as  the  cake 
store,  and  he  tumbled  headlong  into  that  doorway. 

In  the  mire  of  the  street  stood  two  immovable 
oxen,  a  burro,  dogs,  chickens,  pigs  and  tied  up  a 
door  was  a  black  shiney  nosed  big  eyed  gazelle,  it 
had  been  lassoed  and  captured  in  the  woods. 

It  was  a  great  day.  The  villagers  were  at  their 
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doors  watching  the  packing  of  our  stuff  onto  16 
mules ;  beds,  matresses, !  stove,  suit  cases,  stores. 
One  mule  gave  a  tremendous  heave  with  his  back 
and  started  off  at  full  gallop  down  the  street,  scat- 
tering his  pack  on  his  way.  He  was  caught  and  a 
red  handkerchief  tied  over  his  eyes,  a  noose  tied 
round  his  upper  lip,  and  pulled  tight,  and  he  was 
repacked. 

Dick  rode  a  thin  burro  with  a  Mexican  saddle 
and  stirrups  that  looked  like  tin  cans,  two  Indian 
boys  accompanied  him:  one  to  pull  the  burro  and 
the  other  to  push  it.  With  the  baby  parrot  under 
my  arm  I  walked  ahead  of  the  cavalcade  for  two 
miles  along  the  railway  track.  We  expected  a 
good  deal  of  trouble,  but  only  one  mule  fell  over 
the  embankment  with  a  bed  on  his  back,  and  had 
to  be  dragged  up  on  the  end  of  a  rope  by  another. 
How  they  ever  did  the  journey  down  the  rocky 
footpath  through  the  wood  into  the  valley  with- 
out mishap  is  a  miracle.  But  they  fetched  up  at 
the  riverside  in  perfect  order  and  were  there  un- 
loaded, while  a  bridge  was  being  built  to  enable 
the  men  to  carry  the  stuff  across  the  rapids.  This 
took  time,  but  two  palm  tree  trunks  eventually 
spanned  the  rapids  to  a  small  island,  and  from 
there  a  dugout  ferried  us  across  to  the  big  island, 
which  is  our  camp. 

At  eight  o'clock  I  went  to  bed  dead  tired,  my 
bed  was  next  to  the  tent  flap,  tied  back  so  that  the 

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moon  could  shine  in  upon  me,  and  I  could  look 
out  and  see  the  fire-flies.  I  fell  asleep  to  the  sound 
of  water  falls  that  roar  like  a  great  mill  wheel  oil' 
either  side  of  the  island. 

Sunday,  August  21,  1921.  At  Camp. 

What  is  the  use  of  describing  it? 

I  am  never  going  to  forget.  It  is  mirror'd  deep 
down  into  my  soul,  forever.    And  who  else  cares? 

I  am  so  happy  and  so  completely  at  peace.  It 
is  less  than  a  year  since  I  went  to  Russia,  and  it  has 
been  the  fullest  year  of  my  life.  During  that  year 
I  have  hardly  at  all  been  alone,  and  I  am  very 
very  tired. 

Paece,  (the  most  beautiful  word  in  the  English 
language)  "the  Peace  that  passeth  all  understand- 
ing" is  mine  at  last. 

When  I  die  my  Heaven  will  be  like  this.  It 
will  be  warm  and  sunny,  full  of  butterflies,  flow- 
er? and  water  falling,  water  rushing  and  water 
pools  that  trickle.  How  I  love  water  and  the 
sound  of  it!  I  have  found  a  little  secluded  place 
that  I  come  to  all  alone.  When  I  left  the  camp, 
crossing  the  river  and  the  rapids,  I  walked  half  a 
mile  and  then  I  came  to  a  wide  shallow  rivulet. 
Amidstream  there  is  a  tree  and  a  big  shady  rock.  I 
reach  it  by  stepping  stones.  It  is  my  castle.  The 
stream  tumbles  from  one  pool  into  a  lower  one. 
The  water  is  clear  as  crystal.  I  can  see  the  shoal  of 
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big  trout  as  they  swim  together  against  the  current. 
There  seems  to  be  a  myriad  butterflies  of  every 
description.  They  hover  quite  near  me,  as  though 
they  had  never  seen  a  human,  and  so  were  un- 
afraid. There  is  an  irridescent  one  of  sapphire 
blue  as  big  as  a  bat.  It  is  luminous  in  the  sun- 
light, it  dances  around  me  tantalizingly  like  some 
great  living  jewel  that  I  may  not  touch.  I  have 
heard  of  golden  butterflies,  but  I  thought  it  was 
an  exaggeration  of  speech,  but  I  have  found  one 
here.  It  settled  on  my  foot  and  opened  wide  its 
wings,  they  seemed  to  have  been  cut  out  of  gold 
tinsel  and  sewn  together  with  an  orange  thread. 
On  the  branches  of  the  tree  over  my  head  there 
are  clumps  of  white  orchids,  and  a  pair  of  wild 
green  parrots  shriek  noisily  in  their  flight.  I  have 
loved  spring  days  in  England,  with  their  mist  of 
bluebells  in  the  woods,  and  brimstone  butterflies 
the  color  of  the  primroses,  but  this  seasonless 
country,  that  has  never  known  frost,  this  Heaven  of 
eternal  Sunshine  and  riot  of  beauty,  is  almost  too 
wonderful  to  enjoy.  It  is  as  if  one  had  picked  all 
the  best  things  from  every  corner  of  the  Earth  and 
put  them  here,  and  made  a  composition  picture. 

Last  night  I  came  back  by  moonlight  across  the 
island  among  the  sugar  cane.  In  the  distance  the 
lights  glimmered  from  our  thatched  roof  beneath 
which,  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  our  tents  are 
pitched.    On  one  side  of  me  were  bamboo,  palm 

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trees  and  tall  feathery  reeds  and  the  moon  caught 
the  flat  of  the  leaves  and  turned  them  to  silver.    I 
threw  my  arms  out  wide  as  though  to  embrace  it 
all.    I  seemed  not  to  be  a  mere  stranger,  a  passer- 
by.   I,  who  have  no  sense  of  "home"  suddenly  felt 
that  I  "belonged."    My  father  had  a  ranch  in  Wy- 
oming before  I  was  born,  and  perhaps  something 
hitherto  untouched  had  awakened  in  me.     I  have 
no  sense  of  possession.    I  do  not  desire  to  own.   I 
know  that  these  mountains  are  as  completely  mine 
as  some  man's  garden  for  which  he  has  paid.     I 
may  climb   the  mountain,   shoot,   live,   cut  fuel, 
build  a  house,  just  as  I  may  fish  in  the  stream, 
build  bridges  over  it,  dam  it,  treat  it  in  fact  as 
though  I  had  a  title  deed,  but  I  do  not  feel  that  I 
own  them  so  much  as  they  own  me.     I  belong 
here  ...  I  do  not  belong  to  London,  New  York, 
Paris  or  Mexico  City.    I  do  not  belong  to  people 
or  to  any  social  community.    I  belong  to  this  gar- 
den that  God  has  planted.     This  is  not  Mexico, 
it  is  just  Arcady.    It  is  not  anywhere  in  particular, 
it  is  just  a  place  "somewhere  on  God's  Earth."    I 
may  live  here  all  my  life  if  I  please.    I  can  afford 
to  live   here  without   ever   doing   another   day's 
work.    I  need  make  no  further  effort  so  long  as  I 
live.    I  need  never  worry  about  food,  fuel,  roof  nor 
raiment.     I  need  never  again  see  the  misery  of 
civilization,   the  poverty,   the  crime,   the  sordid- 
ness,  the  ugliness.    I  need  never  hear  of  wars,  and 
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the  sufferings  of  humanity.     I  have  strayed  into 
a  garden  of  Peace. 

But  Vasconselos  said  the  truth:  if  humans  are 
content,  they  are  no  better  than  the  brutes,  if  they 
have  imagination,  they  suffer  always.  And  I 
know,  that  although  I  have  found  beauty  and  my 
dreams  have  been  outdreamed,  and  although  I 
have  free  choice,  my  decision  will  not  keep  me 
here.  I  know  this  may  only  be  a  rest  by  the  way- 
side; that  some  day  I  must  arise,  strengthened, 
rested,  and  get  back  into  the  fray.  I  have  an  am- 
bition, the  task  is  set,  I  may  not  give  up.  This  is 
selfindulgence.  No  one  has  a  right  to  continue 
to  live  and  leave  no  foot  print.  One  may  do  some 
good,  or  one  may  do  some  harm,  but  one  must  do 
something  in  the  world,  or  forfeit  the  right  to 
live. 

My  children,  what  would  they  become,  brought 
up  "in  Heaven?"  It  may  not  be.  They  have  to 
pass  through  the  maelstrom  to  become  worthwhile. 

But  this  is  good,  surpassing  good,  and  my  heart 
is  full  of  a  deep  gratitude.  Perhaps  some  day 
when  the  work  is  done,  my  soul  may  rest  in 
"Peace." 

In  CAMP — Date  unknown. 

Our  days  pass,  and  our  nights,  and  some  nights 
are  darker  than  others,  otherwise  they  are  all  the 
same  and  no  one  of  our  days  is  less  good  than  an- 

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other.  They  vary  only  in  the  variety  of  our  ex- 
peditions and  every  new  place  reveals  a  beauty 
equal  to  the  first.  This  morning  I  allowed  Dick 
to  visit  the  secret  place  amidstream  where  I  come 
to  write.  He  took  off  his  garment  to  bathe,  and 
standing  naked  in  the  sun,  on  a  rock  above  the 
waterfall,  his  body  burnt  brown,  and,  with  his  pet 
ant-eater  round  his  neck,  he  looked  the  embodi- 
ment of  Mowglie  in  Rudyard  Kipling's  "Jungle 
Book,"  the  boy  who  was  suckled  by  the  she-wolf, 
and  grew  up  in  the  woods,  and  could  speak  the 
language  of  the  animals. 

Mowglie  could  look  into  the  eyes  of  the  Black 
Panther  and  make  him  blink  and  turn  his  head 
away.  Mowglie  defeated  the  Tiger,  he  led  the 
wolves.  Mowglie,  the  Man-cub,  learned  great  wis- 
dom and  philosophy  from  the  jungle.  This  new 
primaeval  life  seems  to  have  revealed  something 
even  to  me. 

At  this  moment  lying  full  length  in  the  sun  on 
my  rock,  I  am  out  of  sight,  and  well  out  of  sound 
of  any  human  (Oh!  No  I  am  not!  Here  comes  an 
Indian — he  is  going  to  cross  the  stream — he  has 
not  seen  me — he  stops  to  sharpen  his  knife  on  a 
stone — he  has  cut  a  hazel  switch — he  has  crossed 
the  stream — he  is  gone — )  .  . . 

I  lie  here  contemplatively,  and  find  myself  say- 
ing: "If  I  were  a  man!  .  .  ."  It  is  revealed  to  me 
that  to  be  a  man  must  be  a  wonderful  accident  of 
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DICK   SAILING   HIS    BATTLESHIP    IN   THE   TURBULENT 
MEXICAN  RIVER 

(Photograph  by    Clare   Sheridan) 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

birth.  To  be  the  right  kind  of  man  is  to  be  a 
king.  Now  to  be  a  queen,  one  need  not  neces- 
sarily be  the  best  kind  of  woman,  and  being  a 
queen  is  not  worth  while  anyway.  Whereas  to  be 
a  king  means  Power.  "King  by  Divine  Right." 
That  defines  the  finest  type  of  man. 

If  I  were  a  man:  I  mean  young,  sound  of 
mind  and  limb,  body  well  conditioned  and 
muscled  —  indefatigable.  Equipped  mentally 
with  a  moral  code  and  a  sense  of  honor,  and  fear- 
less. I  would  feel  that  I  could  hold  my  own  with 
anyone  in  the  world.  That  I  would  not  be  un- 
fairly matched  with  any  other  physical  force. 
That  in  the  fight,  in  play,  in  competition,  I  had 
but  to  exert  my  capacity  to  the  utmost  to  be  sure 
of  the  issue.  Though  I  were  unendowed  I  would 
own  the  world. 

If  I  were  a  man,  I  would  awake  in  the  morn- 
ing, stretch  my  limbs  and  say  :v  "Thank  God!" 
When  I  was  a  girl,  I  wished  I  were  a  boy,  and  a 
man  (I  have  never  forgotten,  though  I  was  very 
young)  said  to  me:  "As  wishing  won't  change 
you,  you  had  better  try  to  become  the  best  kind  of 
woman,"  but  at  best,  what  is  to  be  a  woman? 

My  short  hair  and  man's  garb  have  temporarily 
added  an  aggressive  personality  to  my  six  foot 
stature  and  my  strength.  But,  at  a  turn  in  the 
road  I  am  likely  to  meet  a  physical  strength 
greater  than  my  own,  which   in  conflict  would 

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utterly  defeat  me.  The  world  is  not  mine,  it  is 
another's  to  whom  I  am  obliged  to  entrust  myself. 
I  am  a  childbearer,  and  of  what  worth  are  my 
physical  powers  of  endurance? 

I  am  a  woman ;  I  am  vain,  jealous,  changeable, 
dependant,  and  ever  must  remain  so. 

Oh  God!  I  pray,  in  my  next  incarnation,  make 
me  the  best  kind  of  man,  and  meanwhile  as  a  com- 
pensation give  me  the  consolation  of  having  made 
one. 

Mexico.   In  Camp. 

I  have  lost  all  track  of  days  and  dates.  I  get 
no  papers,  I  receive  no  letters,  no  one  knows  where 
I  am,  I  hardly  can  locate  myself. 

It  is  a  rough  primitive  life,  and  the  situation 
necessitating  a  long  walk  on  a  hilly  stony  track 
with  rivers  to  cross  has  tested  the  material  of  my 
four  friends. 

The  Scotchman  never  came  at  all,  we  left  him 
in  the  village  when  we  came  to  camp.  He  was  in- 
valuable in  organizing  our  needs  and  dispatching 
the  mule  train,  but  there  was  no  cold  beer  in  these 
regions  and  he  went  back  to  Tampico. 

The  Mexican  started  with  us,  but  turned  back 
half  way. 

The  Irishman  is  a  man  of  affairs,  he  comes  and 
goes — comes  whenever  he  can  snatch  a  spare  few 
days. 
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The  Canadian  has  been  able  to  remain. 
Dick  calls  it  "home" — and  I  suppose  for  him 
it  is  the  nearest  thing  approaching  a  "home"  that 
he  has  had  since  we  left  England,  or  anyway  New 
York.  For  me  also  it  has  somewhat  of  a  home 
feeling.  It  is  so  primitive,  so  simple,  so  poetic. 
One  comes  to  it  with  an  appreciation  that  is  very 
nearly  love. 

How  little  one  needs,  if  the  climate  is  kind,  a 
house  with  walls  is  no  longer  a  necessity,  nor  is 
fuel.  All  one  needs  is  a  roof  to  shade  one  from 
sun  and  rain,  and  for  furniture  just  books,  heaps 
and  heaps  of  books.  One  wants  all  the  books  one 
has  longed  for  time  to  read,  and  all  the  books  one 
loves  that  one  dreams  of  re-reading. 

Our  kind  hosts,  the  man  and  wife  Mexican 
peons,  are  allowing  us  to  share  their  roof.  It  is  a 
high  thatch  of  palm  leaves,  it  might  be  an  open 
barn  or  hayrick.  And  under  this  roof,  we  have 
pitched  our  tent.  At  one  end  there  is  a  room  wal- 
led off  transparently  with  battens  like  a  birdcage, 
this  is  lent  to  us  for  a  storeroom  and  the  Japanese 
cook  and  his  wife  sleep  in  it. 

Behind  a  screen  of  wattles,  on  a  plank,  sleep  the 
owners  of  the  roof.  I  wonder  if  they  will  live  all 
their  lives  in  this  place  to  die  some  day  on  the  plank 
bed  behind  the  wattle  screen.  They  are  a  charming 
couple,  so  happy  and  devoted.  He  makes  money 
by  growing  some  sugar  cane  on  the  island,  and  a 

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few  feet  away  from  our  thatched  barn  is  another, 
under  it  a  primitive  press  in  which  they  squeeze 
the  juice  out  of  the  cane.  Under  that  roof  another 
tent  is  pitched,  and  there  the  men  sleep.  I  don't 
know  who  they  all  are,  but  they  come  and  go,  and 
some  remain — they  are  all  workers  in  the  Tam- 
pico  firm. 

Our  island  camp  is  like  a  miniature  United 
States,  composed  of  a  variety  of  nationalities,  but 
all  submerged  into  a  family  unionism. 

The  Irishman  is  the  real  Commandant,  but  he 
is  obliged  to  be  away  most  of  the  time.  He  sends 
in  his  absence  members  of  his  firm,  those  who 
need  a  rest  or  a  holiday,  and  are  a  protective  force. 

These  men  are  of  varying  types,  most  of  them 
simple  hardworking  people  whose  literary  tastes 
run  no  further  than  detective  stories  and  who  do 
not  deeply  think  nor  discuss  the  world's  problems! 
They  have  a  certain  kind  of  humor  which  usually 
consists  of  teasing  the  cook,  or  telling  stories  about 
getting  drunk.  The  only  cultured  one  among 
them  is  the  Irishman,  who  reads  Schopenhauer 
and  Ibsen. 

He  has  just  arrived  for  two  days.  This  morn- 
ing we  walked  down  to  the  foot  of  the  island, 
crossed  two  rivers,  by  means  of  felled  trees,  and 
walked  back  along  the  mainland,  expecting  to  be 
able  to  recross  the  river  opposite  the  camp  without 
going  back  the  way  we  came.  We  had  a  pleasant 
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and  varied  walk,  half  in  the  water  to  our  knees — 
so  that  my  top  boots  became  like  water  bottles — 
and  then  to  our  waists,  all  to  no  purpose,  the  river 
was  unfordable.  Eventually  being  hot  and  weary 
we  plunged  in  up  to  our  necks. 

It  is  a  lovely  climate  that  enables  one  to  do  these 
things,  which  in  England  would  produce  pneu- 
monia. Finally  in  desperation  at  not  accomplish- 
ing our  purpose,  we  resolutely  stepped  out,  into 
the  shallowest  of  the  rapids  to  effect  our  crossing. 
I  watched  the  man  walking  rather  insecurely,  try- 
ing the  riverbed  ahead  of  me;  at  each  footmove 
one's  leg  with  great  difficulty  withstood  the  current. 
We  seemed  to  be  nearly  over  the  worst,  when  I 
had  a  sensation  of  wavering,  I  put  out  my  hand, 
he  grabbed  it,  and  together  we  were  carried  off 
our  feet  and  rushed  like  'tumbling  logs  down- 
stream. Everything  seemed  dark  and  chaotic.  I 
was  not  conscious  of  my  head  being  under  water 
The  only  thing  that  impressed  me  was  our  utter 
helplessness  and  the  futility  of  his  strong  grasp. 
Very  clearly  I  said  to  myself  "This  is  the  end." 
It  must  come  some  day,  somehow,  and  this  was 
the  day  and  this  was  the  way.  I  wondered  how 
long  it  would  take  and  if  it  would  hurt. 

Then  in  the  muddle  when  one  seemed  to  be  turn- 
ing over  and  round,  any  sort  of  way,  a  mere  bundle 
of  rubbish,  I  came  on  top,  and  saw  the  river  bank 
quite  close — I  snatched  at  grass,  at  roots,  all  failed, 

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and  then  something  held — "I've  got  it,  I've  got 
it,"  I  shouted  in  triumph,  and  when  we  regained 
our  feet,  and  stood  waist  deep,,  spluttering  we 
looked  at  one  another,  without  a  word,  in  great 
surprise,  and  laughed,  but  my  laughter  was  very 
nearly  tears. 

We  triumphed  in  the  end,  I  would  not  return 
the  way  we  came,  so  from  the  mainland  opposite 
our  camp,  the  Irishman  got  across  hand  over  hand, 
on  a  wire  hawser  that  spanned  the  river.  It  used 
to  serve  the  ferry  which  now  lies  wrecked  and  de- 
relict half  a  mile  down-stream;  once  across  he  im- 
provised a  boat,  out  of  a  big  wooden  box  and  came 
across  to  fetch  me. 

We  were  rather  silent  at  supper;  there  seemed 
some  food  for  thought. 

It  is  a  beautiful  but  awesome  thing,  this  river. 
Higher  up  just  around  the  bend  of  the  mountain 
it  cascades  for  half  a  mile:  thunderous  and  force- 
ful. It  approaches  our  island,  almost  like  a  flood, 
diverting  into  varying  streams,  creating  islands, 
engulfing  trees,  there  is  not  a  sight  of  it  that  does 
not  contain  a  waterfall  and  a  fast  current  that 
pours  over  rapids.  Everywhere  there  are  water- 
falls, usually  six  at  a  time  from  every  direction. 
Dick  says  all  the  rivers  in  the  world  have  joined 
us  here.  It  is  an  hypnotic,  wondrous,  fearful 
thing.  Sometimes  I  hate  it,  always  I  fear  it,  se- 
veral times  it  has  tried  to  snatch  Dick  from  me. 
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Always  I  think  it  wants  to  take  Dick,  and  he  loves 
it  so,  is  always  in  it,  fearlessly  going  out  of  his 
depth,  by  hanging  on  the  swiftly  floating  logs. 

The  river  has  the  spirit  of  a  passionate  irre- 
sponsible creature  that  knows  no  laws. 

It  thunders  and  foams,  roars  and  rages,  laughs, 
is  uncontrollable  and  wild  one  minute,  the  next, 
gentle  as  a  little  child,  a  thing  of  moods,  untame- 
able.  There  are  people  with  the  spirit  of  the 
river.  They  are  genius's  or  revolutionaries. 
Some  of  them  are  mad.  ...  I  hate,  I  love,  I  ad 
mire,  I  fear  the  river. 

September,  1921.    In  Camp. 

He  left  today  (the  Irishman  I  mean)  ;  I  walked 
with  him  to  Micos  station.  The  train  was  due  at 
7  a.m.  by  starting  at  9:30  a.m.  he  only  had  3  hours 
to  wait.  (Such  are  the  Mexican  trains).  It  was 
a  hot  long  climb,  I  had  not  been  back  to  the  vil- 
lage since  I  left  it.  When  we  got  there  we  found 
that  it  was  Sunday. 

Instead  of  the  little  peaceful  half  asleep  village 
I  had  known,  it  was  thronged  with  people,  the 
stores  were  doing  a  roaring  trade.  The  meat- 
sellers  had  it  hanging  in  streamers  from  a  pole,  the 
fruit-sellers  had  them  on  a  handkerchief  in  the 
mud.  Everyone  'from  the  neighboring  country 
had  come  to  town.  The  women  looked  at  me 
pityingly,  their  men  gave  them  dresses  and  shoes 

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and  shawls  but  I,  poor  thing,  my  man  gave  me 
only  his  old  clothes  and  boots  to  wear. 

The  most  successful  seller  was  the  fellow  who 
had  a  lump  of  ice  and  sold  colored  drinks.  I 
drank  and  drank,  my  man  gave  me  that  unstint- 
ingly!  he  gave  me  colored  drinks,  a  penknife, 
twelve  handkerchiefs,  and  a  straw  hat — it  was  not 
ungenerous! 

While  thus  engaged  a  cadaverous  unshaved 
grey-haired  man  in  a  blue  shirt,  split  shoes,  and 
one  large  iron  spur,  introduced  himself.  "It  isn't 
often  one  finds  Americans  here,  let  me  shake  your 
hand"  He  said  he  was  American,  had  lived 
here  many  years,  on  a  ranch,  and  that  he  was  a 
Doctor.  Three  finger  nails  were  missing  from  the 
right  hand.  He  wore  spectacles  but  had  a  distant 
look  as  if  he  saw  not  what  he  saw.  A  living  Rip 
van  Winkle.  "Going  to  Tampico?  a  three  days 
trip" — he  said.  "Three  days?  you  mean  ten 
hours."  "Three  days"  he  repeated — "on  a  good 
horse" — so! — the  train  was  not  for  him. 

"The  train  breaks  down"  he  said  contempt- 
uously, as  though  anyone  would  entrust  them- 
selves to  a  train  who  had  a  good  horse.  He  limped 
away  without  another  word.  We  crossed  the 
street  to  another  store  and  a  young  man  with  an 
American  accent  waylaid  us  "Pardon  me  is  your 
party  complete?  a  white  man's  body  lies  drowned 
a  short  way  up  the  river" — he  said  it  in  a  tone  of 
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perfect  detachment  and  indifference.  The  body 
was  there  and  must  be  identified.  We  hesitated  a 
moment,  looked  round  at  our  party,  there  were 
three  or  four  odd  members  of  our  camp — we  were 
complete. 

Further  down  the  village  street  a  horse  was 
lying  with  its  four  feet  tied  together  and  two  men 
operating  on  its  mouth  with  a  big  carving  knife. 
The  horse  groaned  and  sniffed  and  sighed  and 
blood  flowed. 

Approaching  us  on  all  fours  was  a  child  of  five 
or  six.  Like  a  quadruped  it  walked,  a  cursed 
thing,  doomed  from  birth.  It  looked  at  us  cross- 
eyed, and  its  face  was  the  face  of  a  little  wild  ani- 
mal. 

We  did  not  go  to  to  see  the  corpse,  the  others 
went  laughing  and  whistling,  cracking  grim  jokes, 
— the  law  in  Mexico  is  that  no  body  may  be  re- 
moved from  the  water  until  identified. 

They  told  us  on  their  return,  that  it  had  been  in 
the  water  two  weeks,  it  was  floating  on  its  stom- 
ach, fishes  had  eaten  the  face,  vultures  were  hover- 
ing about  the  back.  "Someone  drowned" — and 
that's  all  that  mattered,  but  on  a  Sunday  morning 
how  diverting  for  the  village! 

September,  1921.  In  Camp — Mexico. 

Last  week  we  were  joined  by  an  Anglo-French-  v 
Dutch-American  born  in  Chicago — a  man  with  a 


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close  cropped  head  looking  like  a  convict;  he  was 
reputed  an  anarchist  and  a  dynamiter.  He  did 
not  fit  in  with  the  spirit  of  our  camp.  He  said  of 
me  that  I  was  a  poor  Socialist,  too  imperious  in 
tone.  I  said  of  him  that  he  was  a  poor  Anarchist, 
too  autocratic.  He  talked  to  the  servants  like  dogs, 
and  to  his  equals  as  subordinates.  Within  15  min- 
utes of  his  arrival,  the  camp  was  simmering  with 
indignation. 

Pedro,  the  lad  of  the  village,  who  offered  his 
services  and  was  taken  as  waiter,  and  who  always 
smiles  when  asked  for  anything,  opened  wide  his 
black  eyes,  and  looked  wonderingly  at  this  strange 
new  personality. 

The  Jap  cook — who  shoots  wild  parrots  with  a 
revolver,  and  whose  Mexican  girl  wife  spends  her 
time  feeding  the  small  wild  birds  that  her  husband 
has  caged — were  both  on  the  verge  of  a  general 
strike.  As  a  result  of  which  the  A.  F.  D.  Amer- 
ican said  he  would  "chuck  the  Jap  into  the  river" 
and  looked  as  if  he  meant  it. 

We  have  permanently  attached  to  us  two  half- 
Mexican  Texas  boys — they  wear  sloppy  clothes, 
red  knotted  handkerchiefs  round  their  necks,  and 
loud  blue  check  shirts.  One  of  them  with  black 
hair  standing  up  on  end  and  a  three  days'  growth 
on  his  chin,  looks  like  the  most  dangerous  type  of 
Apache.  I  overheard  these  two  by  the  light  of  a 
lanthorne  discussing  the  newly  arisen  situation. 
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They  were  not  going  to  accept  any  orders  from 
one  their  equal.  "He  may  have  been  in  the 
firm  20  years,  and  he  trades  on  it  but  that  does  not 
make  us  his  subordinates" — they  argued  what 
should  be  done:  not  fight  him  with  fists  they 
agreed,  as  he  had  done  some  quite  shining  light 
boxing  in  his  day — "we  will  get  him  into  the 
river!" — Here  I  interfered,  I  assured  them  they 
were  here  to  take  care  of  me,  and  there  must  be 
no  tragedies  and  no  rows.  I  left  them  when  they 
had  sworn  to  keep  the  peace. 

The  worst  thing  the  A.  F.  D.  American  had 
against  me  was  that  I  offered  him  the  eggs  after 
General  Barragan  had  tasted  them.  General  Bar- 
ragan is  my  parrot.  So  beautiful,  so  spoiled.  He 
has  a  passion  for  poached  eggs,  and  always  comes 
onto  the  table  at  breakfast.  Who  could  mind  eat- 
ing out  of  the  dish  after  General  Barragan?  But 
whatever  I  did  was  wrong,  in  the  unrelenting 
eyes  of  the  A.  F.  D.  American.  So  I  got  the  Ca- 
nadian, who  is  senior  to  him,  to  send  him  back  as 
soon  as  possible  to  Tampico  on  some  pretext  of  an 
errand.  We  breathed  more  freely  when  he  was 
gone. 

The  Swede  who  took  his  place  was  sent,  I  think, 
as  a  practical  joke,  for  the  poor  man  could  be  of 
no  value  to  us  and  he  was  miserable  in  a  life  that 
was  perfectly  alien  to  him.  A  rather  thin,  chetif 
man ;  he  hated  the  effort  of  the  long  rough  walk 

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to  get  here.  Hated  the  tent,  the  bugs,  the  heat, 
washing  in  the  river,  the  absence  of  movies  and 
restaurants. 

"Isn't  it  beautiful?"  I  asked  him — Oh  yes,  he 
agreed  it  was  beautiful.  "Peaceful?"  Oh  yes,  it 
was  peaceful.  "Restful?"  Yes,  it  was  restful,  but 
he  was  not  in  search  of  beauty,  peace  or  rest,  and 
he  left  us  at  his  earliest  opportunity. 

One  night,  however,  we  broke  the  spell.  There 
was  neither  rest  no  peace.    We  gave  a  dance! 

In  a  way  it  was  unpremeditated,  and  grew  by  it- 
self, as  those  things  sometimes  do.  It  began  by 
engaging  two  musicians,  a  violinist  and  a  mando- 
line player  and  by  inviting  the  milkman's  daugh- 
ter and  two  nieces. 

The  news  spread  like  wildfire,  and  we  who  im- 
agined we  were  far  from  human  habitations,  sud- 
denly found  ourselves  with  about  50  men  on  our 
hands!  They  appeared  at  dusk  from  every  di- 
rection. They  hailed  the  ferry  on  both  sides  of 
the  mainland,  they  arrived  all  smartened  up,  and 
by  the  light  of  our  lanterns  and  our  few  colored 
paper  lights,  we  saw  rows  of  white  bloused  In- 
dians in  their  best  hats.  Our  dance  floor  had  been 
especially  arranged  for  the  occasion — all  the 
weeds  and  creeping  water  melon  and  small  palms 
had  been  grubbed;  the  earth  levelled  and  quite  a 
big  space  in  between  the  two  barns  was  rolled  and 
ready.  Four  felled  tree  trunks  were  the  seats  that 
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outlined  it — and  on  these,  the  Indians  sat  in  rows, 
like  birds  contemplatively. 

The  arrival  on  the  dance  ground  of  the  Tour 
specially  invited  women  was  full  of  formal  cere- 
mony. They  were  preceded  by  the  wife  of  our 
landlord  and  by  the  cook's  wife — one  behind  the 
other,  in  silence  they  walked.  At  sight  of  them 
the  row  of  men  on  the  nearest  tree  rose  and  fled 
as  one  man,  and  distributed  themselves  elsewhere 
like  magic,  leaving  the  seat  to  the  women,  who  sat 
on  it  all  in  a  solemn  row. 

When  the  music  tuned  up,  the  bravest  men 
walked  across  the  ground,  selected  their  partners 
with  a  bow  and  a  fine  sweep  of  Mexican  som- 
brero, and  before  dancing  they  paraded  round 
and  round  the  ground  two  by  two.  They  never 
smiled.  The  women  kept  their  heads  bowed  and 
their  eyes  glued  to  the  ground.  When  spoken  to 
they  did  not  answer, — their  whole  attitude  was 
maddeningly  submissive  and  full  of  humility. 

When  they  danced  it  was  a  very  fast  two  step, 
and  the  man  held  his  girl  at  a  very  respectful  dis- 
tance. She  did  not  appear  to  lean  on  him  or  touch 
him.  They  also  danced  a  little  country  dance,  mon- 
otonous and  dull,  of  little  shifting  steps  in  lines 
opposite  one  another.  I  danced  once  with  my  land- 
lord, and  the  rest  of  the  time  with  the  Texas 
"Apache"  boy.  I  am  told  the  evening  was  a  suc- 
cess.   It  looked  to  me  dull  and  sad  in  the  extreme. 

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One  hoped  up  to  the  last  moment  that  the  party 
would  cheer  up  and  get  merry,  but  even  rum 
served  all  round  did  not  stimulate  them.  I  am 
told  the  Indians  are  like  that.  Stoically  melan- 
choly. Such  an  evening  compares  curiously  with 
the  same  as  it  would  be  in  Italy,  Spain  or  Russia — 
there  is  hardly  a  country  one  can  think  where  the 
native  is  not  stirred  by  national  dances  and  music. 
The  men  as  well  as  the  women  looked  rather  apa- 
thetic and  passive  and  stupid — out  of  the  lot  I 
noticed  only  one  man  who  had  individuality,  sta- 
ture and  fine  features.  He  had  the  appearance  of 
a  stage  bandit  and  assurance  of  manner  that  set 
him  conspicuously  apart  from  the  others.  He  wore 
high  boots  and  immaculate  white  linen  coat  and 
a  large  revolver  in  a  holster  on  his  belt.  I  asked 
about  him — he  kept  a  store  some  way  down  the 
river. 

The  great  mystery  was :  where  did  these  people 
all  come  from?  Not  from  Micos,  the  village  afar 
off — but  just  from  plain  thatched  huts  "not  half 
as  fine  as  ours!"  among  the  woods  and  hillside. 

The  supper  we  provided  in  haste  from  our 
tinned  store  was  greatly  appreciated.  Hands  dived 
into  the  apricot  or  sardine  tin  as  their  choice  se- 
lected— and  when  they  left  hours  later,  volleys 
were  fired  from  the  mainland,  which,  as  I  had 
gone  to  bed  and  was  fast  asleep,  woke  me  up  with 
a  bewildering  start. 
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September,  1921.  In  Camp.  Mexico. 

The     strange     Anglo-French-Dutch-American  * 
anarchist  whom  we  sent,   sullen   and  protesting 
from  our  camp,  must  have  cursed  us,  as  he  went. 
He  is  the  seventh  child  of  a  seventh  child,  and 
what  he  knows — he  knows. 

I  think  he  cursed  the  Canadian,  who  sent  him 
back.  Cursed  me  for  getting  him  sent.  Cursed  * 
Dick  for  being  mine.  The  very  next  day  after  his 
departure  the  Canadian  had  fever,  and  a  tempera- 
ture of  104.  Dick  had  a  suppurating  bloodshot  eye 
and  could  not  see,  and  I  went  to  bed  with  some 
mysterious  poisoning  which  may  be  of  an  insect 
or  of  a  weed,  but  cannot  be  identified. 

That  was  seven  days  ago.  I  am  still  in  bed,  suf- 
fering as  if  I  had  been  scalded.  A  cradle  over  me, 
of  reeds,  protects  me  from  the  unbearable  touch 
even  of  the  sheet. 

The  Canadian  for  whose  life  we  feared  at  one 
moment,  wanders  about,  still  with  a  high  temper- 
ature, lies  restlessly  on  the  river  bank,  gasping  for 
air  and  praying  for  ice. 

Dick  is  able  to  go  out  today,  but  with  a 
bandage.  It  is  a  dreadful  anti-climax,  this  last 
week  of  our  camping  days.  For  a  month  every- 
thing has  been  so  perfect.  One  had  not  reckoned 
on  the  snake  in  Paradise. 

A  doctor  came  20  kilometers  on  mule-back.    He 

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stayed  the  night  and  doctored  us  all,  but  without 
any  apparent  result. 

I  feel  as  though  I  were  on  fire,  and  I  am  nearly 
mad.  At  first  I  could  drag  myself  to  the  river  and 
plunge  in  and  get  temporary  relief,  but  for  two 
days  now  the  river  has  been  in  flood;  muddy, 
opaque,  and  raging;  two  nights  of  thunder-storms 
achieved  this  result.  Storms,  which  relieved  for 
me  the  endless  monotony  of  a  sleepless  night. 

I  have  my  bed  close  up  to  the  open  tent  flap,  and 
I  could  see  the  land  lit  up  by  lightning  flashes  that 
lasted  sometimes  a  minute  at  a  time.  The  thunder 
was  stupendous;  if  it  could  have  been  linked  to 
music  it  would  have  been  super-Wagnerian;  it  re- 
thundered  from  mountain-side  to  mountain-side, 
followed  by  a  death-like  lull. 

One  imagined  all  was  over.  Then  with  dra- 
matic suddenness — an  earth-shaking  crash,  as  if 
God  in  a  temper  had  slammed  His  door.  This 
drama  took  about  three  hours  from  the  night,  and 
the  river  has  risen  yet  another  foot. 

September  9,  192 1.  In  Camp.  Mexico. 

The  cycle  has  come  round.  Again  it  is  my 
birthday,  just  a  year  ago  I  bought  my  ticket  for 
Russia. 

Dick  managed  somehow  to  get  a  bunch  of 
gigantic  mauve  convolvulous  flowers  that  were 
growing  up  a  palmtree.  He  brought  them  to  me 
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with  great  sentiment,  so  my  birthday  was,  after  all, 
a  birthday! 

Tonight  is  the  third  night  of  thunder  storms  (I 
am  writing  by  torch  light  in  the  midst  of  it). 

After  nights  of  pain  and  sleeplessness  one  be- 
gins to  think  stupid  things:  I  feel  as  if  this  beauti- 
ful valley  were  a  valley  of  death ;  I  have  thought 
for  sometime  that  the  valley  meant  to  keep  me. 
Even  the  way  I  came  to  it  was  strange  and  un- 
canny— almost  called  to  it  from  the  train  window. 
It  cast  a  spell  on  me  then,  a  spell  strong  enough  to 
enforce  my  return. 

Ever  since  I  came  it  has  been  suggested  to  me 
that  I  stay  forever,  why  go  away? 

The  suggestion  first  came  from  man.  Then  the 
beauty  of  the  place  set  itself  to  lure  me.  Then  the 
river  tried  to  catch  me.  It  has  tried  to  catch  Dick 
too.  Having  slipped  through  that,  I  am  now 
poisoned  unmercifully.  I  shall  get  over  that  but 
then  there's  still  the  river,  and  every  storm  makes 
the  water  rise,  and  the  strong  current  grows 
swifter.  In  the  end  I  can  only  leave  the  island  by 
ferry,  and  the  river  is  getting  more  and  more  im- 
passable. After  a  month  of  Paradise  weather 
suddenly  these  storms,  on  purpose  to  stop  me 
going.  I  must  go  in  four  days.  I  will  be  well 
enough  to  go  in  four  days  I  will  go  in  four  days 
whether  I  am  well  enough  or  not  .  .  .  but,  in  the 
end  there's  the  river  to  cross. 

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I  might  have  known  it  was  uncanny,  this  beauty. 
This  enticing  stillness,  this  holiness  of  peace — 
it  is  a  trap.  It  is  a  valley  of  death.  It  is  full  of 
spirits  and  mysteries.  I  must  get  out — I  am  mad. 
No,  I  am  not  mad,  I  am  sick. 

September  ii.    In  Camp.    Mexico. 

The  Irishman  returned  this  evening  for  the 
week-end,  his  errand  being  to  help  us  start  on  our 
way  on  Tuesday  next.  His  train  was  late — he  ar- 
rived just  before  daylight  faded.  I  heard  them  say, 
"He  has  some  one  with  him,  who  can  it  be  .  .  .  ?" 
It  was  the  Swede  again,  poor  man  having  been 
prevailed  upon  to  return. 

Our  Mexican  "Apache"  went)  across  to  fetch 
them.  Suddenly  I  heard  screams  and  shouts, 
"They're  in — they're  in!"  I  leaped  out  of  my 
sick  bed,  flung  on  a  dressing  gown  and  went  out- 
side the  tent  and  saw  two  men  in  the  water  mak- 
ing for  the  bank.  It  was  the  Irishman  saving  the 
terrified  Swede. 

The  current  had  been  too  strong  and  the  Texas 
boy  was  frantically  trying  to  hold  the  swamping 
boat  to  the  wire  hawser  that  spanned  the  river,  to 
save  it  from  being  lost.  But  he  could  not  hold, 
and  in  another  moment  he  and  it  were  floating 
rapidly  amid-stream,  heading  for  the  rapids. 

It  was  not  until  afterwards  that  I  learned  he 
could  not  swim.  No  one  has  yet  understood  why 
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he  was  not  drowned.  He  went  over  the  falls  and 
was  engulfed  underneath  the  capsized  boat.  The 
river  divides  here  into  two  currents.  By  mercy 
of  Providence  the  boat  was  swept  along  by  the 
current  that  runs  into  shore  instead  of  by  the 
other,  which  would  have  carried  him  straight  on 
down. 

He  came  ashore  having  displayed  great  calm 
and  courage.  When  his  safety  was  realized  the 
next  problem  was  how  to  get  the  other  two  across 
the  river,  the  terrified  Swede  could  not  swim,  the 
Irishman  had  gone  back  to  the  mainland  for 
him.  They  could  come  across  without  much  dif- 
ficulty and  risk,  half  in,  half  out  of  the  water  hand 
over  hand  on  the  wire  hawser.  The  Swede  stood 
shivering  on  the  bank,  he  would  not  contemplate  it. 
The  Irishman  accomplished  it,  went  back  and 
forth  three  times  to  fetch  him — two  men  from  our 
side  went  across  with  ropes  to  help  him.  He  was 
immovable.  Rather  would  he  return  all  the  long 
hard  weary  way  to  Micos  in  the  dark  and  take  his 
chance  of  village  hospitality,  and  catch  a  train  for 
Tampico  in  the  morning. 

I  think  if  I  were  a  man  I  would  rather  drown, 
than  admit  before  so  many  people  that  I  was 
afraid  to  attempt  what  the  others  proved  could  be 
done  with  safety.  After  such  a  journey,  to  be  so 
near  home,  to  see  the  goal  just  across  the  way — to 
be  so  tired — so  hungry  and  so  wet,  and  not  to  make 

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the  final  effort  to  get  there.  Well — he  went  back. 
The  evening  seemed  to  me  a  strange  corrobora- 
tion of  my  last  night's  musings.  The  river  rises, 
and  it  rises — and  in  four  days  time,  I  have  to  cross 
it  by  the  ferry. 

September  12.    Mexico. 

My  fears  were  unwarranted:  In  the  end,  the 
river  was  kind  and  calm  and  let  me  pass — I  said 
goodbye  regretfully,  lingeringly,  even  I  have  to 
admit  tearfully. 

I  am  quite  sure  I  shall  never  return  to  the  island 
that  has  been  my  world  for  a  month. 

It  is  a  closed  chapter,  but  a  very  definite  chap- 
ter, and  I  have  learnt  many  things.  I  have  learnt 
that  nature,  with  her  camouflage  garb  of  beauty, 
is  merciless,  cruel,  pitiless  and  hostile.  The  un- 
polluted virgin  forest  contains  poison  and  disease. 
Civilization  which  I  have  always  scorned  is  fight- 
ing Nature  all  the  time.  The  wonder  is  that  any- 
one survives  Nature.  Cruelty  is  primitive,  not 
decadent,  as  I  used  to  believe. 

Nevertheless,  long  after  I  have  forgotten  the 
hurt  of  Nature,  I  will  remember  a  thousand  beau- 
tiful things  that  are  indelible. 

I  have  been  happy — on  the  whole  tremendously 
happy.  A  happiness  that  is  pure  and  abstract  and 
did  not  depend  on  a  human  being. 

But  if  I  lived  in  this  country  I  should  weary  of 
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the  seasonless  sameness.    There  are  things  that  the 
blood  of  my  race  would  cry  aloud  for. 
I  should  miss: — 
— The  turn  of  the  leaf  in  Autumn. 

The  frosty  crispness  of  an  early  dawn. 
Twilight. 

My  footprints  in  the  dew. 
Pheasants  fluttering  to  roost. 
Green  beechbuds  in  the  Spring. 
Mist  of  bluebells  in  a  leafless  wood. 
The  robin's  song. 
A  wood  fire  crackling. 
And   the  pleasant  sight  of   children    in  clean 
white  pinafores  on  their  way  to  school. 

SEPTEMBER  15,   1921.     Nuevo  Laredo,  Mexico. 

Such  an  anti-climax — the  Immigration  people 
have  refused  us  entrance  to  the  U.  S.,  because 
Dick  had  fever  and  sore  eyes,  which  they  say  is 
"trachoma"  described  officially  as  "a  dangerous, 
contagious  disease." 

It  nearly  broke  my  heart  to  see  my  San  Antonio 
train  steam  away,  and  us  left  in  Mexico.  We  so 
counted  on  getting  to  a  good  hotel  and  a  good 
doctor  at  San  Antonio.  Goodness  knows  when 
we  will  pet  out  of  this  country.  The  Doctor  says 
it  will  take  time. 

The  Mexican  Laredo  Hotels  are  indescribable: 

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no  water,  no  food,  no  drains,  floor  covered  with 
ants.  We  leave  tonight  for  Monterey  to  await 
Dick's  recuperation. 

We  are  so  dirty,  so  worn  out,  so  poisoned,  so 
sore  and  wretched,  such  a  Job's  company.  That 
is  what  camping  in  Mexico  means. 

From  this  window,  I  see  across  the  river  the 
U.  S.  flag  floating  from  dignified  buildings.  So 
near,  so  longed  for.    Heaven's  door  closed. 

It  is  a  blow. 

I  feel  lost,  very  homeless,  very  unloved,  very 
unwanted. 

SEPTEMBER  17,   1921.     Monterey,  Mexico. 

Of  course  Dick  has  not  go  trachoma — the 
doctor  who  has  lived  in  Mexico  20  years  rec- 
ognized it  at  once  as  the  most  ordinary  Mexican 
eye  disease  prevalent  among*  children.  I  shall 
probably  get  it  too.  Meanwhile  here  we  are,  re- 
cuperating. The  Hotel  has  at  least  got  baths  and 
hot  and  cold  water.  One  is  so  reduced  in  spirits, 
so  humbled,  so  unspoiled,  one  hardly  dreams  of 
higher  bliss  than  this! 

I  had  not  even  the  energy  to  get  into  the  Plaza 
and  see  the  Centenary  procession.  Dick  and  I  got 
up  on  to  the  deserted  and  neglected  roof  garden. 

There  one  views  the  jagged  mountain  ranges 
by  which  the  town  is  surrounded.  It  is  really 
rather  beautiful,  but  my  spirit  is  across  the  border, 
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I  am  existing  here  under  protest;  sullen,  bored, 
inactive.  I  have  an  affection  for  the  United 
States.    I  want  to  get  back  there. 

Though  they  treat  me  like  a  steerage  emigrant 
it  makes  no  difference,  and  after  all,  what  am  I 
but  an  emigrant?  A  first  class,  specially  reserved 
saloon,  emigrant — but  none  the  less  a  simple  home- 
less emigrant,  asking  humbly  for  admittance. 

The  American  industrial  magnates  here  have 
been  ever  so  kind  and  helpful.  The  American 
Smelting  and  Refining  Works  especially  have 
done  more  for  me  than  I  can  ever  repay.  Their 
practical  and  volunteered  help  and  great  thought- 
fulness  cannot  be  described  nor  appreciated  in 
mere  words.  I  rather  suspect  the  channel  through 
which  this  help  was  contrived,  although  his  name 
has  not  been  mentioned  to  me. 

To  while  away  our  waiting  moments,  Dick  and 
I,  in  company  with  a  representative  of  the  Bald- 
win Locomtive  works,  went  to  an  amateur  bull-fight 
in  celebration  of  the  Centenario.  A  feeble  amateur 
affair  it  was.  Nothing  illustrative  of  Mexico  bull- 
fighting. A  bedraggled  show,  neither  decorative, 
spectacular  nor  well  fought.  Mercifully  the  bull's 
horns  were  sawn  off  at  the  tips  so  we  were  spared 
the  sight  of  horses  ripped  up  and  trailing  entrails. 
But  I  saw  enough  of  blood  and  brutality.  The 
audience  cheered,  laughed,  sang,  shouted.  Almost 
it  sounded  like  a  baseball  game.    The  more  blood 

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flowed,  the  more  they  shouted  with  joy.  The  bulls 
were  young  ones,  too  young  to  be  very  fierce.  They 
would  not  face  the  horses  at  all,  and  to  enliven 
them,  the  bandolaria  were  charged  with  a  time 
fuse  and  exploded  like  a  firework  with  loud  de- 
tonations, and  burnt  interiorly.  For  some  time 
after  the  explosion,  smoke  emanated  from  the 
burnt,  black,  bleeding  wound  in  the  bull's  back. 
One  animal  in  terror  jumped  the  paling.  The  kill- 
ing with  the  sword  at  the  end  was  bungled  every 
time.  The  sword  missed  the  vital  spot  and  was 
plunged  up  to  the  hilt  in  the  brute's  shoulder,  to 
be  withdrawn,  on  the  first  opportunity,  dripping 
with  blood,  and  restruck  again,  and  again.  The 
mob  cheering  the  while.  When  the  last  bull  was 
killed  the  crowd  flooded  the  ring,  and  the  dead 
bull  was  mutilated  by  people  who  carried  away 
bits  of  it  as  souvenirs.  When  the  carcass  had  been 
finally  dragged  away  on  a  rope  by  two  mules  and 
a  pool  of  blood  marked  the  spot,  boys  besieged  it, 
dipped  naked  feet  in  it,  seemed  hypnotized  and 
enthralled  by  the  sight  and  touch  of  blood. 

The  horrible  thing  is  that  after  the  sixth  bull  had 
been  tormented  to  death,  one's  own  feelings  as  re- 
gards the  sight  of  blood  were  almost  blunted. 
Frankly  I  longed  to  see  a  man  killed  for  a  change, 
instead  of  the  bull.  There  was  something  ridiculous 
about  these  swaggering  men  with  their  long  lances, 
astride  horses  that  could'  hardly  stand  up,  and 
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that  had  to  be  urged  towards  the  bull  by  men  who 
lashed  them  from  behind.  Chiefly  the  bull  seemed 
to  be  pursued  more  than  pursuing. 

SEPTEMBER  27,  1921.     San  Antonio,  Texas, 

My  appeal  to  Washington  met  with  a  response 
that  has  been  a  revelation  to  me  of  American 
chivalry.  We  passed  the  border  yesterday  at  dawn. 
I  faced  it  with  some  trepidation,  but  we  received 
the  greatest  courtesy  and  consideration.  After  re- 
examination of  Dick  (who  is  much  better)  they 
retracted  the  verdict  of  trachoma. 

Six  weeks  accumulation  of  mail  has  met  me 
here.  My  head  is  buzzing  with  taking  it  all  in. 
The  reading  did  not  cheer  me.  From  England, 
on  all  sides  gloomy  accounts  politically  and  pri- 
vately. They  ask  me  to  return  to  their  gloom.  Of 
course  one  has  occasional  moments  of  homesick- 
ness when  the  desire  to  see  one's  own  world  is  over- 
whelming. But  one  is  happier  away  here.  There 
is  daylight  instead  of  darkness.  There  is  air  to 
breath,"  There's  life.  Everything  and  everyone 
is  young,  vital,  active,  hopeful. 

We  are  resting  for  three  or  four  days.  The  town 
has  been  badly  delapidated  by  the  recent  floods. 
One  goes  in  to  a  shop  to  ask  for  something — and 
ever  the  same  reply:  "Our  stock  was  washed  away 
by  the  flood — we  cannot  supply  you."  We  drove 
out  to  the  Breckenridge  Park  and  beheld  with 

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amazement  the  impudent  little  stream  that  caused 
the  havoc. 

There  is  nothing  to  do  in  this  semi-American, 
semi-Mexican  town.  But  the  hotel  is  pure  Ameri- 
can, full  of  standardized  American  luxury.  It 
seems  wonderful.  I  ring  the  bell  of  my  bedroom 
and  ask  the  room  service  to  send  me  a  jug — (no  a 
pitcher  I  have  to  call  it,  else  they  don't  under- 
stand)— a  pitcher  of  lemonade.  I  don't  always 
want  the  lemonade  but  I  love  to  see  it  when  it 
comes.  The  glass  jug  is  a  real  object  of  beauty — 
a  work  of  art.  It  is  full  of  sliced  oranges,  carmine 
cherries,  ice  and  green  leaved  herb.  It  is  a  riot  of 
color,  a  delight  to  the  eye.  I  might  be  drinking  in 
a  dream  the  sap  of  irridescent  precious  stones! 

I  am  making  use  of  those  quiet  days  to  try  and 
tame  Dick.  At  present  he  is  a  savage.  He  keeps 
on  hitching  his  trousers  up  as  one  unaccustomed 
to  wearing  clothes.  He  exclaims:  "Jesus!"  when 
unduly  stirred.  He  learnt  it  from  the  Texas  boys 
in  camp.  He  is  not  sure  what  he  may  or  may  not 
eat  in  his  fingers  and  is  very  clumsy  with  his  fork. 

To  counter-balance  this  he  has  acquired  a  use- 
ful knowledge  of  things.  For  instance  one  of  his 
games  it  to  lay  pipe  lines — oil  of  course.  He 
knows  something  about  locomotives,  and  what  the 
very  newest  type  is  like  inside  as  compared  with 
the  old  (the  Baldwin  locomotive  representative 
took  a  fancy  to  him).  He  has  a  smattering  of 
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knowledge  about  gods  and  things  you  find  in  the 
earth.  But  he  isn't  (at  present)  fit  to  tea  out  at 
five  o'clock  in  a  drawing  room  with  any  of  my 
friends'  children. 

OCTOBER  3,  1921.  Ambassador  Hotel,  Los  Angeles 

I  asked  how  long  it  would  take  me  to  get  to  Los 
Angeles.  They  said  three  days.  I  had  expected 
it  to  take  ten  hours.  I  cannot  get  used  to  distances 
in  this  country. 

So  this  is  Los  Angeles! 

For  two  months,  at  breakfast,  lunch  and  dinner, 
Mr.  Washington  B.  Vanderlip  used  to  tell  me,  at 
Moscow,  about  Los  Angeles.  He  would  not  listen 
to  anything  about  Russia.  The  Russians  would 
have  been  interested  to  hear  about  America,  but  he 
did  not  tell  us  about  America,  he  always  talked 
about  Los  Angeles.  No  matter  how  remotely 
conversation  drifted  onto  other  subjects,  he  always 
brought  it  back  to  Los  Angeles.  Finally,  one  day 
at  breakfast,  about  the  end  of  the  5th  week,  I  sud- 
denly realized  I  hated  Los  Angeles,  and  when  he 
began  again  I  put  my  hand  on  his :  "stop — "  I  said, 
"and  let  me  say  something  about  London."  He 
could  not  bear  it,  and  left  the  room.  And  now  here 
I  am,  as  I  never  expected  to  be,  actually  in  Los 
Angeles. 

Mr.  Goldwyn,  whom  I  met  in  New  York,  has 
telegraphed  to  his  studio  president,  Mr.  Lehr,  and 

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asked  him  to  take  care  of  me.  Mr.  Lehr  has  placed 
a  car  at  my  disposal  all  day  and  every  day.  He 
has  introduced  me  to  Gouveneur  Morris  and 
Rupert  Hughes,  but  above  all  he  has  shown  me  a 
new  world  of  which  I  was  totally  ignorant. 

My  initiation  into  the  realm  of  film  production 
has  been  a  revelation  to  me.  Possibly  the  great 
big  world  that  pays  its  25  cents  to  see  a  "movie" 
show,  understands  all  about  it,  knows  what  it  costs 
to  produce,  appreciates  the  toil  and  the  thought 
and  the  plan  involved.  But  I  did  not  know.  Truth 
to  tell  I  have  seen  very  few  films  besides  "The 
Birth  of  a  Nation"  which  taught  me  all  I  know  of 
American  History.  I  have  seen  bits  of  plays  being 
photographed  out  in  the  open  "on  location"  in  film 
language,  and  I  had  gathered  an  idea  that  to  be  a 
film  actress  meant  that  one  had  rather  a  lovely 
time,  doing  spectacular  things  in  beautiful  and  in- 
teresting surroundings.  I  saw  their  lovely  photo- 
graphs in  magazines.  I  knew  that  some  of  them 
became  millionaires,  and  that  internationally 
known  ones  were  mobbed  through  admiration  if 
they  walked  abroad.  An  easy  path  to  fame,  I 
thought,  if  one  had  the  right  kind  of  face. 

I  really  came  to  Los  Angeles  for  no  other  reason 
than  to  have  a  glimpse  of  its  amusing  play-land, 
and  it  has  been  a  revelation  to  me. 

My  surprise  grew  as  I  followed  Mr.  Lehr  from 
building  to  building.  There  were  departments  of 
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dress-making  and  store-rooms  full  of  lovely  frocks 
and  materials,  some  of  the  finest  cloth  of  gold  and 
brocades  of  Italian  weaving.  There  were  cassones 
containing  real  sables  and  other  furs,  tailors,  hair- 
dressers, manicurists,  carpenters  and  barbers  were 
all  part  of  the  organization,  and  a  canteen  that  re- 
called to  my  mind  the  Communist  restaurants  of 
Moscow,  but  where,  unlike  Moscow,  I  was  able  to 
get  an  ice  cream  soda  at  almost  any  time  of  the 
day!  There  were  a  bewilderment  of  storehouses, 
a  sort  of  dreamland  full  of  everything  and  any- 
thing that  anyone  could  want  in  a  hurry.  Tin  tacks 
and  paste,  Florentine  shrines  and  Henry  II  chairs 
(so  efficiently  home-made  as  to  perplex  an  antiqu- 
ary!), canary  birds  in  cages,  Buddhas,  invalid 
crutches  and  Persian  carpets.  Stores  and  stores 
full  of  what  they  called  "props"  which  I  would 
gladly  have  looted.  As  for  the  "Studios"  there 
were  three  or  more  and  they  looked  like  the 
familiar  "orangerie"  of  some  old  country  estate, 
amid  trim  lawns,  such  as  I  thought  only  Eng- 
land could  boast. 

I  was  surprised  that  in  the  midst  of  this  great 
industry  there  should  have  been  found  time  and 
thought  to  spend  on  abstract  decoration  and 
beauty.  The  garden  was  full  of  flowers,  and  stone 
urns  cast  long  shadows  on  the  grass.  Strange  fig- 
ures passed  me  by;  a  pirate,  and  then  some  Russian 
refugees  and  Russian  children  turned  joyful  somer- 

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saults  upon  the  grass.  And  then — the  village!  So 
quaint  and  old  world,  so  exactly  like  our  village 
at  home.  It  enchanted  me,  I  thought  it  would  be 
a  lovely  place  to  live.  I  asked  questions  and  they 
told  me  it  was  a  sham.  <  I  could  not  believe  this 
until  I  had  walked  all  round  it.  Such  a  splendid 
solid  sham  it  was,  with  such  an  unflinching  front. 

Then  I  began  to  wonder  what  was  real  and  what 
was  mere  illusion.  I  seemed  to  go  to  Russia  and 
then  to  China.  I  looked  for  my  Romeo  in  Venice, 
and  then  felt  sadly  transplanted  to  an  East  Side 
slum.  I  looked  at  the  ground  to  be  sure  I  was 
walking  on  real  grass,  and  up  at  the  sky  to  see  if 
I  was  still  in  the  world,  and  then  I  pinched  myself 
and  it  was  still  me. 

But  in  this  bewildering  land  of  make-believe  I 
found  realities.  I  lingered  and  looked  at  some 
plays  being  staged  in  opposite  parts  of  the  studios. 
I  marvelled  at  the  patience  and  the  effort  that 
each  small  scene  demanded.  Patience  and  good 
temper  on  the  part  of  the  director,  the  camera  men, 
the  electricians,  the  carpenters — endless,  endless 
patience,  amazing  good  humor.  I  watched  one 
small  and — as  it  seemed  to  me — insignificant  scene 
being  repeated  three  or  four  times,  and  each  time 
seemed  to  me  exactly  like  the  last,  and  each  time, 
when  it  was  over,  the  director  said  to  the  actress: 
"That's  good,  dear,  that's  very  good!"  But  he  ex- 
plained to  me  that  whereas  the  first  "shot"  was 
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45  feet  long,  the  last  one  was  reduced  to  25  feet 
and  the  important  thing  was  condensation.  I 
realized  the  necessity  of  co-operation  between  the 
workers,  beginning  with  the  author's  effort,  and 
the  "continuity  writers,"  right  through  the  details 
to  the  end.  What  immense  individual  effort,  and 
thought  and  work  each  film  scene  necessitates! 
Here  too,  as  everywhere,  are  the  heartbreaks,  the 
dreams  and  ambitions,  the  triumphs,  the  disap- 
pointments, the  never  ending  dramas  and  tragedies 
of  human  endeavor. 

It  is  a  new  world  to  me,  and  I  have  to  admit  a 
great  admiration  and  a  great  respect  for  it. 

I  dined,  a  small  party,  at  the  house  of  Gouver-  ' 
neur  Morris.  We  had  a  Chinese  dinner,  especially 
prepared  by  his  Chinese  cook.  All  through  dinner 
the  conversation  was  of  Charlie  Chaplin,  his  looks,  v 
his  individuality,  incidents  in  their  friendship,  and 
what  I  had  missed.  Never  a  word  of  criticism  did 
I  hear,  everyone  talked  of  him  with  appreciation 
and  affection,  almost  with  pride.  He  had  talked  of 
me,  they  said.  He  had  distributed  "Mayfair  to 
Moscow"  among  his  friends,  and  most  people 
thought  we  knew  one  another  intimately.  Finally 
I  found  myself  too  calling  him  "Charlie."  From  " 
all  accounts  he  is  cultured,  thoughtful  and  attrac- 
tive, and  I  wonder  to  myself  whether  I  am  never 
to  know  but  the  mirror'd  reflection.  I  feel  like 
one  who  does  not  personally  know  the  great,  but 

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know  someone  who  does  and  writes  home  about 
it!  After  dinner  we  left  the  men,  and  went  on  a 
voyage  of  exploration  round  the  house,  which  is 
bungalow  in  type,  and  very  attractive  and  then 
in  the  bathroom  we  paused  to  powder  our  noses. 
In  the  bathroom  we  remained,  three  of  us,  perched 
on  the  baths'  edge,  forgot  the  men,  and  drifted  into 
conversation  which  was  all  absorbing. 

One  girl  was  a  film  actress  with  bobbed  straight 
glossy  henna  hair.  Her  face  was  much  made  up, 
her  mouth  might  have  been  of  any  other  design 
than  the  painted  one.  She  was  decorative  and 
futuristic  and  I  liked  looking  at  her.  She  in- 
trigued me.  The  other  girl  was  a  vivacious  and 
restless  continuity-writer.  Both  were  very  young. 
They  talked  unreservedly  about  their  love  affairs, 
and  I  listened  enraptured,  as  to  a  story  of  de 
Maupassant.  In  the  end  we  were  agreed  that  mar- 
riage would  spoil  everything  and  then  the  men, 
impatient  of  our  absence,  came  and  banged  upon 
the  bathroom  door. 

OCTOBER,  1921.     Los  Angeles. 

Upton  Sinclair  fetched  me  for  dinner.  I  was 
surprised  when  I  saw  the  author  of  "The  Jungle," 
whom  I  expected  to  be  aggressive  and  strong-faced. 
Instead  I  found  a  gentle  creature,  rather  vague, 
and  rather  shy  and  with  a  rather  weak  chin.  We 
decided  that  our  sort  of  background  was  not  the 
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Ambassador  Hotel,  and  I  asked  him  to  take  me 
anywhere  else.    We  motored  into  the  heart  of  the 
town,  and  went  to  a  cafeteria.   This  was  new  to  me. 
Never  before  had  I  been  to  a  cafeteria.  I  had  never 
even  heard  what  they  were  like.    I  followed  him 
and  did  what  he  did,  and  tried  to  look  as  if  I  knew 
what  to  do ;  he  first  took  a  metal  tray  from  a  column 
of  trays,   and  passed  along  a   row  or  buffet  of 
hot  dishes,  selecting  what  he  liked,  and  the  serv- 
ing woman  behind  the  buffet  placed  a  ration  of  his 
selection  on  his  tray.  Carrying  our  own  trayfuls  we 
retired  to  a  little  table.    We  talked  until  everyone 
else  had  left,  until  men  on  step  ladders  re-arranged 
the  flowers  on  their  columns,  until  finally  the  cafe- 
teria closed  and  we  were  expelled.    Most  of  that 
time  we  talked  about  "The  Jungle."   I  asked  him 
a  hundred  questions.     How  did  he  know  about 
the  lives  of  the  foreign  immigrants?    How  did  he 
get  into  their  souls?    Had  he  imagined  it,  or  did 
he  know  it?    How  had  he  learnt  so  much  about 
the  details  of  work  at  the  packing  houses? 

I  learnt  all  I  wanted  to  know.  He  had  imagined 
nothing.  The  Russian  family  was  a  real  family. 
The  wedding  feast  was  real — he  was  present.  He 
had  lived  in  Packingtown.  Every  story  was  a  real 
story,  a  proven  story.  Everything  was  true  .  .  . 
and  that  was  fifteen  years  ago,  and  conditions,  he 
said,  were  much  the  same  today.  They  had  not 
much  improved.    He  is  a  most  sincere  Socialist. 

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Unrelenting,  uncompromising,  he  is  at  war  with 
v  all  the  powers  that  be.  Don  Quixote  tilting  at  a 
windmill  isn't  in  it.  Sinclair  tilts  at  industrial 
kings  in  armor,  at  the  octopus  tendons  of  the  news- 
paper kingdom — at  all  the  mailed  fists  in  the  world 
in  general  and  the  United  States  in  particular.  He 
is  in  quest  of  truth  and  light.  He  wishes  to  undress 
the  veiled  spectres,  and  show  us  the  naked  truth 
beneath,  the  truth  with  all  its  maladies  and  sores, 
its  hideousness,  its  terrible  deformities,  so  ably 
hidden.  This  mild-faced  man  will  stop  at  noth- 
ing. He  has  great  courage  and  never  fears  destruc- 
tion. He  is  unwavering  in  his  determination.  He 
goes  crashing  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread. 

Driven  from  the  cafeteria  into  the  night,  we 
motored  fast  and  aimless,  talking  as  we  drove,  talk, 
ing,  never  ceasing,  until  we  could  drive  no  more. 
Our  road  led  down  a  hill,  straight  like  the  road 
of  the  Nazarene  swine,  into  the  sea,  and  so  we 
stopped ;  a  great  long  white  line  of  breakers  con- 
fronted us,  we  left  the  car,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
undecidedly.  Then  a  long  seaside  bench  came 
crawling  past  me.  I  thought  for  a  moment  that 
I  was  in  madland.  I  remembered  in  a  flash  the 
sham  village,  the  illusions  of  filmland,  still  so  near 
me.  Really  one  should  not  be  surprised  by  any- 
thing any  more.  In  the  dim  light  I  again  looked 
at  the  walking  seat  and  yet  again,  and  then  I 
realized  the  man  who  was  sitting  on  it  was  really 
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driving  it.  The  seat  was  a  motor  seat.  We  jumped 
upon  it  and  were  carried  rriiles,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
along  the  sea  walk.  In  the  distance  were  bright 
lights,  we  stopped  when  we  reached  them,  and  this 
was  "Venice."  I  have  always  longed  to  go  to 
Venice,  but  I  never  knew  it  looked  like  this.  Over- 
head a  network  of  colored  lights,  and  from  no  visi- 
ble location,  the  music  of  a  gramaphone.  Before 
us  a  square  stone  stately  building,  called  a  "Bath 
house"  and  in  large  letters  over  a  door  "check 
babies  here."  "Check"  (I  have  learnt)  is  an 
American  word  which  described  what  people  do 
with  their  hats  and  umbrellas  when  they  go  into 
a  restaurant.  Further  on,  dazzled  by  the  lights 
and  laughter  of  Venice,  we  stopped  for  an  ice- 
cream soda,  and  then  took  shots  at  sham  rabbits 
and  moving  ducks  with  a  rifle.  Here  too  I  was 
introduced  for  the  first  time  to  chewing  gum, 
pleasant  to  chew,  but  unfortunately  unpleasant  to 
taste. 

Saturday,  October  8,  1921. 

The  Goldwyn  Studio  Co.,  having  arranged  my 
reservations  for  me,  sent  a  car  to  take  me  to  the  8 
P.M.  train  for  San  Francisco. 

When  the  hotel  porter  shouted  down  the  line  of 
parked  cars:  "Goldwyn  Studio  Car"  the  crowd  of 
dinner  arrivals  simply  stood  still  and  stared.  I  had 
my  parrot  "General  Baragan"  on  my  shoulder  and 

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I  stepped  into  the  car  with  the  self-consciousness 
of  a  recognized  prominent  film  star! 

On  the  train  I  did  as  directed  by  my  hosts-to-be: 
I  sought  out  the  director  of  the  train  and  told  him 
"the  Lark"  would  stop  in  the  morning  at  Burlin- 
game.  I  hadn't  a  notion  where  or  what  Burlin- 
game  was,  except  that  my  friends  lived  there,  and 
the  train  was  to  be  stopped.  The  director  looked 
at  me,  in  a  curious  way,  as  though  I  were  a  poor 
lunatic  suffering  from  hallucination.  He  had 
been,  he  said,  on  the  train  for  25  years  and  it  never 
yet  had  stopped  at  Burlingame.  However,  the 
train  did  stop  there  in  the  morning  and  deposited 
me  and  Dick  and  Louise  and  the  parrot  with  all  our 
luggage  m  the  middle  of  the  track  and  hurriedly 
sped  away.  Then  Constance  Tobin,  whom  I  had 
not  seen  for  15  years  and  who  had  been  a  school- 
mate of  mine  at  the  convent  in  Paris,  appeared 
with  her  husband  to  greet  me. 

• 

Six  Days  Later.    Burhngame. 

In  a  very  short  time  it  became  evident  to  me 
that  Constance  had  remained  true  to  tradition  and 
the  environment  from  which  we  both  had  sprung. 
A  social  environment  which  is  much  the  same  in 
all  countries.  Meanwhile  she  realized  that  I  had 
played  truant.  We  had  an  amusing  time  renew- 
ing ourselves  to  each  other.  We  began  cautiously, 
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but  in  the  end,  admitting  totally  different  tastes 
and  opinions,  we  have  linked  up  a  friendship  that 
is  now  confirmed. 

Meanwhile  the  social  strenuousness  of  Burlin- 
game  cannot  kill  me  physically,  because  I  am  a 
very  strong  woman,  but  it  has  killed  me  mentally. 
There  is  a  pain  at  the  back  of  my  forehead  and  a 
void  where  thoughts  should  be.  Burlingame  has, 
collectively,  the  psychology  of  a  great  big  girls' 
school.  The  stranger  arrives  and  is  looked  at,  is 
accepted  or  ignored,  as  the  case  may  be.  Burlin- 
game is  independent  of  spirit  and  likes  as  it 
pleases.  Like  children,  they  seem  to  be  care-free, 
happy  and  contented.  Yes,  surely  these  are  happy 
people,  they  represent  exclusively  the  prosperous, 
— they  have  no  anxieties  of  life.  Contentment  is 
their  most  conspicuous  quality — they  would  not 
be  here,  else. 

It  is  a  self-indulgent,  happy-go-lucky  communi- 
ty, not  over-critical,  the  spirit  of  "live-and-let-live" 
which  is  rather  rare  in  the  East,  thrives  here.  They 
lead  an  easy  life  in  a  kindly  climate,  they  can  af- 
ford to  be  generous.  They  all  know  each  other 
very  well,  and  they  see  one  another  every  day. 
Sometimes  three  times  and  sometimes  four.  Their 
houses  are  close  together.  There  are  no  big 
properties  as  in  England  to  rouse  one's  sense  of  in- 
equality.   They  motor  to  each  other's  houses  and 

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to  the  country  club,  although  they  are  only  a  stone's 
throw  in  distance,  and  every  time  they  meet  they 
are  pleased  to  see  each  other. 

I  wonder  they  have  anything  left  to  say,  yet  they 
talk  all  the  time.  It  is  true  they  do  not  listen  much, 
they  all  talk  at  the  same  time. 

On  Saturdays  and  Sundays,  and  at  night,  there 
are  men.  These  love  their  golf,  their  tennis  and 
their  bridge,  and  they  dress  like  Englishmen. 

In  their  midst  is  one  strange  man  who  does  not 
belong.  I  met  him,  of  course,  the  moment  I  ar- 
rived. My  name  being  somehow  associated  in 
people's  minds  with  Russia,  I  must  surely  meet 
this  Russian  no  matter  what  kind  of  Russian  he 
might  be. 

"They"  said  he  is  the  Russian  consul,  represent- 
ing the  Russian  government.  No  one  seemed  to 
know  that  the  Russian  government  is  not  repre- 
sented in  this  country  and  no  one  cared. 

True  to  type,  I  recognized  at  once  that  he  be- 
longed to  the  regime  that's  gone.  With  all  the 
charm  and  arrogance,  the  old  world  manners  and 
impenetrable  smile,  this  blase  cosmopolitan,  ap- 
preciative, yet  consciously  superior,  stood  out — a 
stranger  in  their  midst.  No  party  seemed  com- 
plete without  him.  But  I  too  was  a  stranger  and 
watched  him  and  I  watched  them,  and  I  saw  that 
he  too  watched.  Sometimes  I  thought  I  knew 
what  he  was  thinking  and  ofttimes  I  gave  it  up. 
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Friday,  October  14,  1921.    San  Francisco. 

I  got  into  San  Francisco  early,  and  took  Dick 
to  Dr.  Abrams  where  George  Sterling  was  waiting 
for  me.  George  Sterling,  as  I  understand,  is  the 
Swinburne  of  California.  He  has  an  exquisitely 
refined  head,  a  nose  that  one  sees  on  a  Greek  cameo, 
but  a  voice  that  labels  him  of  his  country. 

Dr.  Abrams  is  a  doctor  whom  a  great  many 
doctors  call  a  quack,  and  some  superficial  people 
laugh  over.  He  is  the  man  of  whom  Upton  Sin- 
clair raved  to  me,  declaring  that  he  had  made  the 
discovery  that  was  to  revolutionize  the  world.  I 
am  far  too  ignorant  and  unscientific  to  attempt  an 
explanation  of  this  theory.  Suffice  to  say  that  it  is 
entirely  based  on  vibration.  Each  disease,  he 
claims,  has  its  own  vibratory  reaction,  and  it  is 
only  necessary  to  take  a  blood  test  to  discover  what 
the  disease  is,  and  then  cure  it. 

I  sat  in  his  laboratory  among  a  dozen  doctors 
and  watched  and  listened  for  two  hours  or  more. 
I  should  have  listened  and  watched  for  two  weeks 
and  then  I  might  have  begun  to  understand. 

I  have  no  right  to  an  opinion,  but  I  have  a  right 
to  an  open  mind.  Those  two  hours  were  among 
the  most  interesting  I  have  ever  spent. 

He  took  a  drop  of  Dick's  blood  and  tested  it. 
"This  is  the  blood  of  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan," 
Dr.  Abrams  announced  to  the  laboratory!    It  re- 

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acted  to  the  malaria  vibration,  this  he  explained, 
might  be  due  to  the  amount  of  quinine  Dick  was 
taking.  The  cure  he  said,  had  the  same  vibratory- 
rate  as  the  disease.  He  recommended  me  to  stop 
all  further  quinine  and  bring  him  back  in  a  few 
days.  He  tested  him  for  every  other  kind  of 
disease  but  Dick  had  practically  a  clean  slate.  This 
is  very  rare,  for  most  of  us  have  something  con- 
genital, even  if  we  don't  know  it. 

I  came  away  with  one  conviction  at  least,  that 
Dr.  Abrams  is  a  type  of  genius,  is  perfectly  sincere, 
and  is  working  himself  to  death.  The  people  who 
know  more  than  I  do  can  say  what  they  like,  but 
those  facts  remain.  He  is  undoubtedly  living  50 
years  before  his  time.  As  for  sceptics,  I  do  not  see 
how  anyone  dare  to  be  sceptical  in  these  days  of 
wireless  telegraphy  and  wireless  telephone,  which 
after  all  are  entirely  based  on  vibratory  foundations. 
I  saw  Dr.  Abrams  discover  a  cancer  in  one  per- 
son, tuberculosis  with  syphilis  and  malaria  in  an- 
other and  a  decayed  back  tooth  in  a  third.  These 
were  done  from  a  drop  of  blood,  the  patients  were 
not  even  in  the  room.  They  came  in  afterwards. 
Nebulously,  in  my  head,  I  understand  the  process, 
but  one  has  to  be  there  to  see. 

My  own  experience  with  the  medical  profession 
has  made  me  very  open  minded.  I  have  received 
the  results  I  looked  for  from  the  one  doctor  in  Lon- 
don that  the  medical  profession  declared  to  be  a 
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quack,  when  they,  the  so-called  best  doctors  in  the 
profession,  had  failed  to  help  me. 

I  sometimes  think  the  medical  profession  is,  of 
all  professions,  the  slowest  to  accept  new  ideas, 
the  most  conventional.  Their  sense  of  professional 
etiquette  seems  to  count  before  all  else. 

Later  in  the  day  we  went  to  the  house  of  a  friend 
of  George  Sterling's,  a  composer,  who  sets  his 
songs  to  music.  There  in  a  half  dark  room,  full 
of  flowers,  and  baskets  filled  to  the  brim  with  rose 
petals,  we  drank  red  wine.  Curled  up  on  a  sofa  I 
listened  to  the  playing  and  singing  of  his  songs. 
Now  and  then  George  would  read  out  loud  some 
new  poem  not  yet  published. 

That  night  we  went  and  sipped  absinthe  in  some 
low  haunt.  It  is  no  use,  Mr.  Prohibition  Agent, 
to  come  after  me  and  ask  me  where  that  was,  be- 
cause I  don't  know,  and  I'm  quite  sure  George 
doesn't  remember. 

Monday,  October  17,  1921. 

San  Francisco  is  rather  proud  of  being  built 
like  Rome,  on  seven  hills,  and  it  certainly  is  ef- 
fective. One  street  was  so  steep  that  a  ladder  was 
built  onto  the  side  walk  to  help  one  up.  The 
cable  cars  go  slipping  perilously  down,  or  crawl- 
ing terrifyingly  up.  But  the  towns  in  this  country 
that  I  have  seen  vary  little  in  the  way  of  buildings 
and  streets.    Their  atmosphere  varies. — San  Fran- 

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cisco  for  instance,  has  that  foreign  cosmopolitan 
feeling  that  characterises  New  York.  But  whereas 
New  York  gets  its  atmosphere  in  ships  from  Eu- 
rope, San  Francisco  brings  it  in  from  the  Orient, 
and  with  it  some  of  the  mystery  which  New  York 
has  not. 

The  temptation  to  me  to  board  a  ship  and  go  to 
China  is  heart-breaking,  and  it  seems  so  easy,  so 
obvious.  Only  I  can't,  because  after  five  months 
of  wandering  the  funds  are  low.  I  must  return  to 
New  York,  and  work  and  work  through  the  winter 
before  me,  to  store  up  for  the  next  adventure! 

Monday,  October  17,  1921.    Burlingame. 
ONE  DAY  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

Today  Constance  motored  me  into  town,  and 
we  fetched  up  at  12:30  at  the  Dolores  Mission.  It 
was  closed,  and  a  formidable  woman  who  opened 
the  priest's  house  door,  refused  to  let  us  see  a  priest. 
Constance,  undefeated  and  indignant,  retreated  to 
the  grocer  shop  across  the  way  and  telephoned  to 
a  Bishop.  It  was  equivalent  to  "Open,  Sesame!" 
On  second  application  the  female  watchdog  melted 
away,  and  a  priest  appeared  in  her  stead.  He 
had  an  Irish  name,  and  an  Irish  face,  and  he  kindly 
showed  us  over  the  mission.  This  was  founded  in 
about  1770  by  the  Franciscan  friars,  hence  the  sub- 
sequent name  of  the  town,  San  Francisco.     The 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

Church  was  built  long  after  Spain  had  ceased  to 
erect  those  glories  of  architecture  that  are  con- 
spicuous in  Mexico.  In  the  16th  Century  labor 
was  cheap,  and  the  Church  was  rich.  In  the  18th 
Century  the  glory  of  God  was  chanted  in  a  build- 
ing of  adobe  (dried  mud-bricks)  white-washed. 
This  simple  building  still  stands,  with  its  little 
whitewashed  columns  outside,  like  the  entrance  to 
a  simple  Colonial  house.  Around  the  Mission 
sprang  up  the  native  grass  huts.  Then  with  the 
gold-rush  evolved  the  rough  mining  town,  and 
that  was  the  beginning  of  San  Francisco.  Before 
the  earthquake  the  town  was  only  70  years  old. 
But  I  am  not  writing  a  guide  book! 

From  the  church  we  wandered  out  into  the  sun 
bathed  cemetery,  old  world,  deserted  and  neglect- 
ed. The  first  grave  that  caught  my  eye  was  en- 
graved with  the  name  of  Arguello,  governor 
of  the  County.  He  was  the  brother  or  the  father 
of  the  girl  Concha  whom  Bret  Harte  has  im- 
mortalised in  his  poem  called:  "Concepcion  de 
Arguello."  Further  on,  another  grave  known  as 
that  of  "Yankee  Sullivan"  a  prize  fighter  who 
had  died  at  the  hands  of  the  Vigilante  Society — 
"a  native  of  Bandon  Co.,  Cork,  Ireland,"  so  the  - 
inscription  ran.  I  repeated  to  myself  "Bandon  .  .  . 
Bandon"  my  own  little  Irish  village  town — and 
my  childhood  up  to  seventeen  welled  up  in  my 
heart  and  memory.  The  Irish  valley,  and  the  river, 

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woods,  and  hills  .  .  .  my  friends  the  poachers,  and 
the  village  drunks  who  used  to  frighten  me  so  on 
the  lonely  road  on  Saturday  afternoons  1 

I  remember  now — that  our  gardener,  and  our 
keeper,  and  the  coachman  whom  we  children 
loved,  had  left  us  one  by  one.  I  used  to  wonder 
what  it  meant  "to  emigrate" — I  vaguely  under- 
stood they  were  leaving  for  "the  States,"  but  what 
sort  of  state  that  was  I  did  not  know,  but  I  re- 
member how  they  said  goodbye ;  big,  strong  men, 
with  tears  in  their  eyes,  impress  a  child.  I  stood 
there  before  the  grave  of  this  inhabitant  of  Ban- 
don,  and  felt  absurdly  sentimental.  It  is  a  long 
way  from  Bandon  to  San  Francisco.  We  lingered 
over-long,  and  had  to  hurry  away,  arriving  at  the 
St.  Francis  Hotel  extremely  late  for  lunch.  Af- 
terwards Mr.  de  Young  took  me  to  his  museum 
which  he  has  presented  to  the  town.  It  has  the 
most  perfect  setting,  in  the  middle  of  the  Park.  We 
did  a  lightning  rush  through  it  for  we  had  less  than 
an  hour.  Sculptures,  paintings,  prints,  enamels, 
ivories,  textures,  furnitures  and  minerals,  he 
showed  me  a  motley  collection  arranged  with  care 
and  taste. 

From  here  we  rushed  back  to  the  Hotel,  being 
arrested  on  the  way  for  "speeding,"  and  Mr.  de 
Young  left  me  in  the  hands  of  a  detective  to  see 
the  town! 

We  started  off  first  to  the  city  gaol ;  I  suppose  a 
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great  many  people  have  seen  the  inside  of  a  gaol, 
but  I  had  not.  It  hit  me  with  the  full  force  of  a 
first  impression.  We  arrived  there  in  a  jocular 
mood,  but  that  mood  was  dispersed  the  moment 
we  stepped  out  of  the  elevator  onto  the  prison 
floor. 

There  they  were,  humans  behind  bars.  Pacing 
back  and  forth  in  the  narrow  caged-in  alley-way. 
Each  had  his  cell,  more  like  a  cage  it  looked,  and 
their  door  opened  onto  this  "run."  The  warder 
showed  us  how  the  cell  doors  worked.  One  iron 
lever  closed  the  entire  row  with  one  movement. 
The  sound  was  exactly  like  the  closing  of  doors  in 
the  lion  house  at  the  Zoo.  I  did  not  like  to  look 
too  hard,  I  felt  a  great  embarrassment.  When- 
ever, at  the  Zoo,  I  have  stared  at  lions  I  have  al- 
ways been  conscious  of  the  indignity  towards 
them,  and  to  stare  into  the  eyes  of  caged  humans 
is  almost  more  than  one  dare.  In  one  cell  lying 
on  the  bare  wood  floor,  in  a  contorted  position, 
almost  standing  on  his  head,  one  man  lay  half 
dazed,  and  seemingly  in  great  distress.  The  war- 
der said  he  was  a  drug-fiend.  "How  long  have 
you  been  taking  the  stuff?"  the  warder  asked  him 
— "Twenty-one  years  .  .  ."  the  fellow  answered  in 
a  atrange  strained  voice,  moistening  dry  lips,  and 
opening  and  closing  his  eyes.  Then  with  a  sud- 
den outbreak,  and  without  shifting  his  position: 
"No  prison  ever  stopped  a  man  from  taking  dope." 

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In  another  section,  a  nice  looking  Spanish  boy 
was  sitting  writing  in  his  cell.  It  looked  like  a 
cabin  on  board  a  ship.  He  had  ornamented  the 
wall  with  pictures  from  the  illustrated  papers  of 
film-stars  and  English  peeresses.  He  looked  so 
young,  so  cheerful,  so  frank  and  honest.  "Why 
are  you  here?"  I  asked.  He  smiled,  and  hesitated, 
and  then  looked  shyly  down:  "A  girl — eighten — 
a  minor — " 

"American?"  I  asked. 
"No— Italian." 

"In  Spain  or  Italy  that  wouldn't  put  you  in 
prison!"  I  said,  thinking  of  the  mature  Latin  girls 
of  fourteen. 

"It's  like  a  home!"  he  said  humorously. 
We  went  to  the  woman's  section.     In  one  big 
cage  sat  three  or  four,  one  was  greyhaired,  her 
age  was  74.    "Smuggling  drink"  was  her  trouble. 
I  began  to  feel  that  it  is  only  a  crime  to  be  found 
out.      In  the  next  a  woman  sat  alone.    Big,  thick, 
middle  aged,  with  a  face  grown  hard  from  suf- 
fering— she  arose  and  came  to  the  iron  bars  to  talk 
with  us.  She' had  at  last — she  told  the  warder — 
slept  one  hour,  and  felt  a  little  better.  Her  indict- 
ment was  that  she  had  shot  her  husband.  "I  adored 
him — "  she  said,  "my  daughter  didn't  want  me  to 
marry  him,   because  of   the  way  he   drank — we 
married  just  two  years  ago.    Yes  I  am  American 
born — my   husband   was    a    Swede.      He   was    a 

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cement-worker.  His  only  fault  was  drink. — Last 
Saturday  he  bought  some  moonshine,  mixed  it  up 
with  beer, — firewater  it  was,  it  drove  him  crazy. 
He  threatened  to  shoot  me  first  and  then  himself. 
I  got  the  gun  off  the  Captain  (?)  who  was  in  the 
house.  I  thought  it  was  unloaded,  and  so  I  hand- 
ed it  to  him  as  a  joke,  and  it  went  off — " 

"Lucky  it  went  off  on  him  instead  of  on  you — " 
I  said.     She  looked  at  me  wearily  through  half 
closed  eyes:  "It  might  as  well  have  been  me — " 
We  left  the  prison. 

In  the  basement  of  the  building  the  Coronei 
had   his    office,    and   he   invited    us   to   see    "the 
Morgue."   In  a  big  room,  a  big  table  with  a  lamp 
and  books  gave  the  illusion  of  a  salon.    The  four 
corners    were    partitioned    off,    and    handsomely 
draped  with  velvet  curtains.     In  these  the  bodies 
lie,  the  first  few  days,  awaiting  recognition.  There 
were  but  two  this  day,  one  was  completely  covered 
over;  the  other  partially.     From  beneath  a  sheet 
two  stumps  protruded,  and  a  bucket  hung  to  catch 
the  blood.    An  Italian  boy  fishing  from  a  raft,  had 
drowned.     His  body  had  been  rescued  from  man 
eating  sharks.     "We  have  two  more  in  cold  stor- 
age, down!  below,"  said  the  Coroner.     We   fol- 
lowed him.    The  place  was  built  like  an  aquar- 
ium.      On  either  side  were  great  show  cases,  lit 
up  with  electric  light.    In  each  a  body  was  beauti- 
fully set,  wrapped  around  in  a  sheet  so  that  only 

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the  face  could  show.  They  can  be  preserved  here 
for  several  months. 

One's  first  impression  was  "how  life-like" — 
they  seemed  to  be  some  waxen  image,  in  the 
"Chamber  of  Horrors"  at  Madame  Tussaud's. 

One,  an  old  man,  greyhaired,  open  mouthed, 
head  thrown  back  and  dilating  nostrils,  had  com- 
mitted suicide  by  gas  asphyxiation.  The  othei 
a  little  blood  stained  smiling  boy,  red  haired  look- 
ing at  us  with  such  wide  open  wondering  eyes.  He 
had  been  run  over  by  a  train.  The  announce- 
ment of  a  red  haired  boy,  had  brought  about  50 
people,  but  none  so  far  had  claimed  him.  From 
fifty  families  a  red-haired  boy  had  disappeared, 
it  seemed  incredible.  But,  it  is  midnight — I  can- 
not go  on  writing  and  thinking  of  this  place,  with 
its  dead  below,  and  its  dead-alive  above.  I  will 
recall  how  I  got  out  into  God's  air,  and  drank  the 
cool  fresh  evening  in  deep  breaths.  And  so,  across 
the  square  to  Chinatown.  Here  at  a  street  corner 
my  detective  guide  hailed  two  strange,  illdressed, 
square  built  stalwart  men.  These  were  detectives 
in  disguise,  who  mingle  with  the  Chinese  crowd, 
and  know  the  Chinese  haunts.  They  seemed  well- 
known  in  Chinatown,  disguise  is  not  much  use! 
One  of  them  joined  us  and  we  followed  him.  He 
took  us  into  shops  and  eating  houses,  where  blank 
faced  Chinamen  played  their  games  of  cards  and 
dominos  and  hardly  troubled  to  look  up  at  us  as 
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we  passed  through.  Into  back  premises  we  went, 
and  down  black  stairs,  through  secret  doors  and 
passages,  where  by  the  light  of  an  electric  torch 
one  saw  the  hatchet  marks  where  doors  and  walls 
had  been  hacked  down  when  the  place  was  raided 
by  the  police. 

However  anyone  ever  discovered  the  latchless 
secret  doors  that  seemed  so  perfectly  a  part  of  the 
panelled  wall  or  dared  to  penetrate  into  the  laby- 
rinths of  double  walls,  trapdoors  and  secret  stair- 
ways, Heaven  only  knows. 

Our  stalwart  guide,  who  looked  more  like  an 
Irish  prize  fighter  than  a  shrewd  detective,  seemed 
to  glory  in  the  game.  Every  day  and  every  night 
must  seem  to  him  a  great  adventure.  He  led  us 
down  a  black  unlighted  alley,  a  cul-de-sac  between 
some  tenements,  where  murders  are  not  in- 
frequent. Suddenly  he  turned  round,  on  a  silent 
footed  follower  whom  I  had  not  noticed:  "What 
are  you  sneaking  around  here  for — get  out!"  he 
said  and  flashed  his  torch  in  the  grimly  smiling 
Chinese  face.  Just  for  a  second  I  felt  the  atmos- 
phere rather  tense — the  Chinaman  hesitated,  and 
then  retreated. 

We  pushed  open  a  door  ajar.  A  Chinese  pros- 
titute stood  smoking  her  pipe.  Soberly  dressed, 
in  black  silk  jacket  and  trousers,  her  hair  so  neat 
and  shiny,  her  face  almost  unpainted,  she  shyly 
grinned  at  us.    I  made  a  comparison  in  my  mind, 

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between  this  and  the  half  breed  Mexicans  at  Tam- 
pico.  In  comparison  the  Chinese  was  a  noble- 
woman. 

The  police  have  their  hands  full  in  Chinatown, 
to  prevent  gambling,  doping  and  prostitution. 
Though  why  it  should  be  any  concern  of  the  law's 
whether  a  Chinaman,  in  Chinatown,  is  solicited 
by  a  Chinese  prostitute  is  more  than  I  can  under- 
stand. This  country  moves  in  a  mysterious  way, 
its  wonder  to  perform,  and  one  can  hope  that  it 
knows  best. 

I  motored  back  to  Burlingame  and  hurriedly 
dressed  and  arrived  extremely  late  at  a  dinner 
party.  Wine  flowed,  and  restored  my  jaded  spir- 
its. I  looked  round  the  table  at  the  brilliant, 
cheerful,  noisy  company  and  a  new  thought  came 
to  me.  I  found  myself  pondering  on  the  high 
moral  standard  imposed  by  the  United  States. 
Continually  I  ask  myself  this  question:  "Is  the 
United  States  more  moral  than  any  other  country? 
Are  the  men  and  women  human,  or  has  legislation 
and  public  opinion  extinguished  the  devil  that 
lives  in  human  frames?"    I  find  no  answer. 

Wednesday,  October  20,  1921.  Monterey. 
There  is  a  man  in  Burlingame  who  is  quite  dif- 
^  ferent  to  anyone  else.  He  is  a  recluse.  It  is  very 
strange  to  be  a  recluse  in  Burlingame.  He  has 
read  more  books  than  anyone  I  have  ever  met.  Not 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

especially  modern  books,  but  he  will  suddenly  tell 
you  what  Petrarch  said  to  Laura,  or  recall  Dante, 
and  sometimes  be  as  modern  as  Stevenson.  He  is 
difficult  to  meet,  for  he  will  not  go  out  socially. 

Yesterday  morning  he  fetched  me  in  his  car  and 
motored  me  to  Monterey.  I  don't  know  how  far 
away  it  is,  but  we  started  at  10  A.M.  and  reached 
Monterey  at  sunset.  A  wonderful  road,  through 
miles  of  orchards  and  then  winding  through 
mountains  and  forests  to  the  sea. 

We  lunched  at  Santa  Cruz,  and  when  we  left 
the  city,  a  placard  on  the  boundary  said  that  Santa 
Cruz  bade  us  farewell,  hoped  we  had  had  a  good 
time,  and  that  we  would  some  day  return. 

All  along  the  motor  road  even  in  what  looked 
like  primitive  wilds,  one  was  distracted  all  the 
time  by  placards  on  the  road  which  hampered 
one's  conversation.  Mostly  they  were  directions 
for  the  motor  driver  who  it  was  taken  for 
granted  must  be  a  complete  idiot.  It  left  him  no 
choice,  no  doubt  whatever  as  to  the  right  thing  to 
do.  "Blow  your  horn" — "Dangerous  curve  a- 
head"  accompanied  by  a  diagram  illustrating  the 
kind  of  curve  to  expect, — further  directions  as  to 
what  to  do  with  the  throttle,  etc.,  etc.,  and  wher- 
ever there  was  a  flat  wood  fence  there  was  in- 
scribed a  reminder  that  Christ  loved  me,  and  the 
option  of  deciding  whether  I  would  sin,  or  choose 
the  other  path.     Occasionally  we  were  informed 

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"Picture  ahead,  Kodak  as  you  go."    Apparently 
a  man  may  be  blind,  the  state  will  see  for  him. 

As  the  day  advanced  we  speeded,  so  as  to  catch 
the  sun  before  it  set  into  the  sea.  We  fetched  up 
eventually  at  his  sister's  house  which  is  above  the 
rocks  on  the  wild  seashore,  known  as  Pebble  Beach. 
The  house,  which  has  arcades  and  is  Italian  in  de- 
sign, reminded  me  of  Shelley's  house  at  Lerici,  the 
house  to  which  Shelley  was  sailing  back  from  Sor- 
rento, when  the  storm  overtook  him  and  he  was 
drowned.  The  peace,  the  loneliness,  and  the  sea 
sounds  that  prevaded  this  house  on  the  Pacific 
shore  were  balm  to  my  socially  weary  soul.  I 
walked  in  the  dusk  among  the  gnarled  and  tor- 
tuous storm  beaten  cedars  of  Lebanon  that  have 
their  roots  among  the  rocks.  These  are  the  only 
trees  that  grow,  and  the  only  place  where  they 
grow.  No  one  can  explain  how  the  seeds  were 
brought,  whether  by  hand  of  human,  or  by  a  bird, 
or  with  the  wind.  But  here  on  this  coast,  with  the 
grip  of  centuries  that  no  storm  can  dislodge,  and 
with  their  heads  as  bright  young  green  as  their 
stems  are  old  and  warped,  the  cedars  of  Lebanon 
reign  supreme. 

I  was  sorry  that  I  had  only  one  night  to  spend, 
it  seemed  too  beautiful  to  leave  so  soon. 

I  know  that  some  day,  when  I  have  seen  all  I 
want  to  see  of  people,  when  I  have  travelled  more 
and  allayed  some  of  my  curiosity,  when  I  have 

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worked  some  more  and  am  more  tired,  then  I  will 
go  away  into  a  silent  and  lonely  and  beautiful 
place  and  never  more  be  seen,  and  my  children 
will  say:  "We  have  a  funny  old  mother,  who  lives 
way  off  somewhere,  and  whom  we  go  and  visit 
now  and  then." 

Thursday,  October  21.  Monterey. 

Next  morning  we  motored  along  the  coast, 
visited  the  old  mission  of  San  Juan,  which  is  inter- 
esting. The  guide  showing  us  over  the  church 
announced  impressively  that  it  was  170  years  old. 
"Is  that  all?"  I  exclaimed,  looking  round  at  the 
primitive  walls  that  might  have  been  archaic  and 
pre-historic.  My  companion  in  reply  commented 
on  "the  arrogance  of  foreigners"  and  completely 
shut  me  up. 

We  then  went  and  called  at  the  house  of  Francis 
McComus,  the  painter.  He  and  his  wife  were  in. 
Mrs.  McComus  is  the  first  human  being  I  have 
ever  seen  who  looks  like  a  Gauguin,  and  attrac- 
tive, which  I  never  thought  a  Gauguin! 

I  had  never  seen  the  work  of  McComus  before, 
and  I  was  spellbound.  One  after  another  he 
showed  us  his  Arizona  landscapes,  with  their  pure 
almost  irridescent  colors.  I  am  aware  that  I  am 
given  to  enthusiasm,  but  here  is  something  to  be 
enthusiastic  about.  Men  who  produce  work  at 
this  level  lend  to  the  country  they  belong  to  a  re- 

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fleeted  glory  that  should  arouse  much  national 
pride. 

Here  is  a  man  that  Paris  or  London  would  ac- 
claim, and  who  shoufd  not  be  allowed  his  life  of 
indolent  contentment  on  the  wild  Pacific  Coast. 
How  strange  a  country  this  is,  how  full  of  sur- 
prises and  unexpectedness!  That  one  should  drop 
into  a  house  by  the  wayside,  and  find  so  great  an 
artist! 

Tuesday,  October  25,  1921.   San  Francisco. 

Dick  Tobin  telephoned  me  to  come  in  early  to 
San  Francisco  as  he  had  something  he  thought 
interesting  for  me  to  do.  I  picked  him  up  at  the 
Hibernian  Bank  and  he  took  me  down  to  the  ferry, 
gave  me  a  ticket,  a  bunch  of  violets  and  typewrit- 
ten directions,  and  sent  me  off  to  St.  Quentin  pri- 
son across  the  bay. 

At  the  prison,  which  stands  up  like  a  great  for- 
tress on  a  promontory,  I  introduced  myself  to  War- 
den Johnston.  He  and  Mrs.  Johnston  gave  me 
lunch  at  their  house  above  the  flowered  terraces, 
sunbathed,  with  its  wonderful  view  of  the  bay.  On 
their  verandah  two  grey-  flannelled  prisoners  were 
tying  up  the  Bougamvillia  creeper.  Inside  we 
were  waited  on  at  table  by  a  Chinaman  who  has 
a  life  sentence.  I  asked  his  crime  ...  he  was  just 
a  "Tongman."  After  lunch  the  Warden  handed 
me  over  to  Miss  Jackson  who  is  in  charge  of  the 
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Women's  Section,  and  for  an  hour  I  sat  and  talked 
in  their  little  sitting  room,  with  a  group  of  women 
prisoners.  Their  bedrooms  were  like  cubicles  in 
a  girl's  school,  small,  simply  furnished,  full  of 
personal  knickknacks,  and  not  at  all  suggestive  of 
a  prison  cell.  Their  clothes  were  blue  and  white 
narrow  striped  linen,  made  pretty)  well  as  they 
liked.  Miss  Jackson,  I  found  a  most  interesting 
character.  Full  of  insight  and  clairvoyance,  full 
of  deep  human  sympathy,  understanding  and 
kindness.  One  realized  how  tremendously  these 
caged  souls  were  hers  to  help  or  hurt,  and  how 
much  more  terrible  their  fate  would  be  if  the 
Wardress  were  hard  and  without  understanding. 
But  Miss  Jackson  talked  to  me  of  some  of  them 
(before  I  met  them)  with  real  interest  and  even 
affection. 

I  asked  her  whether  a  life  sentence  case  was  as 
easy  to  manage  as  one  who  had  done  a  lesser 
crime.  Her  reply  was  illuminating.  She  said 
that  wheras  a  life  sentence  was  pronounced  on  an 
individual  who  might  be  clean  of  character  but 
for  the  one  desperate  deed,  prompted  by  God 
knows  what  passionate  provocation,  the  lesser 
criminal  on  the  other  hand  might  be  an  habitual 
petty  malefactor  who  had  merely  chanced  to  be 
caught  on  the  hundreth  act! 

Out  of  over  2,000  prisoners  only  about  25  or  27 
were  women,  and  of  these  about  10  came  and  talked 

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to  me  in  the  sitting  room,  showed  me  their  needle 
work  and  conversed  animatedly  about  the  world 
outside.  They  seemed  in  their  hearts,  almost  un- 
beknown to  themselves  to  be  tremendous  femin- 
ists, and  we  had  quite  a  heated  debate  on  the  sub- 
ject of  whether  men  were  intellectually  superior 
to  women,  as  a  man  asserted  to  me  the  day  before 
at  lunch.  We  all  granted  the  physical  superiority, 
but  as  to  the  rest  .  .  .  well,  happily  we  were  all 
women  and  no  man  heard  us ! 

We  discussed  the  impending  disarmament  con- 
vention, and  we  agreed  that  it  would  most  likely 
end,  as  the  Versailles  conference  ended.  We  con- 
jured up  the  picture  of  all  the  best  brains  in  the 
world,  gathered  together  for  months  and  months, 
with  all  their  retinue  of  secretaries,  and  their  sec- 
retaries' secretaries,  and  we  were  of  unanimous 
opinion  that  women  thus  collectively  could  not 
have  talked  more,  with  less  results.  Indeed  the 
result  of  Versailles  is  completely  nil.  Some  of  us 
dared  to  believe  that  women  might  have  done 
better!  I  like  to  think  of  even  the  women  behind 
gaol  bars,  women  of  varying  ages  and  nationali- 
ties, women  with  hardened  or  breaking  hearts, 
putting  aside  now  and  then  their  personal  griefs 
to  watch,  humorously,  this  conference  of  men  who 
assemble  for  the  second  time,  all  seriously,  to 
settle  the  problems  of  a  perplexing  and  rebellious 
world. 
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At  last  I  asked  what  I  could  do  for  them  outside 
and  the  request  was  for  books.  New  books,  the 
latest  publications,  "something  well  written — and 
modern  1"  Classics  they  had  in  plenty.  The  Rus- 
sian prisoner  wanted  "Confessions"  by  Tolstoi. 
The  Italians,  however,  said  they  would  read  noth- 
ing, not  even  if  I  secured  Italian  editions  1  To  the 
charming  English  girl,  with  a  life  sentence,  I 
promised  Margot  Asquith's  diary,  Strachey's 
Queen  Victoria  and  the  Mirrors  of  Downing 
Street.  Then  Warden  Johnston  came  and  fetched 
men  and  showed  me  all  he  could  of  the  rest  of  the 
prison. 

I  saw  the  library,  the  workshops,  the  chapel  and 
the  hospital,  but  he  would  not  take  me  among  the 
male  prisoners.  The  sex  problem  is  not  without 
interest.  One  forgets,  that  to  a  man  with  a  life 
sentence  it  is  not  very  fair  to  parade  women  visi- 
tors. I  sat  up  in  the  balcony  with  the  guard  and 
watched  the  men  assemble  in  the  yard  for  lockup. 
They  were  of  such  varied  types  and  mostly  so 
young.  In  front  of  them,  like  a  giant  pattio,  sur- 
rounded by  the  prison  buildings  was  a  huge  par- 
terre of  brilliant  dahlias  all  bathed  in  the  setting 
sunlight.  These  flowers  have  gone  forth  into  the 
outside  world,  and  won  prizes  at  the  local  flower 
shows.  Hanging  from  the  verandah  roof  in  front 
of  the  upper  story  cells,  baskets  of  growing  flowers 
were    suspended    by    wires,    a    curious    contrast. 

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There  were  a  few  negroes  among  the  crowd.  Some 
Chinese  and  one  or  two  prisoners  conspicuous  by 
their  wide  striped  uniforms.  These  were  the  men 
who  had  broken  parole.  One  man  I  noticed  who 
did  clerk  work  in  one  of  'the  prison  offces,  he 
walked  across  the  pattio  at  lockup  time  and  he 
held  his  head  high  and  walked  with  an  almost  in- 
solent assurance.  His  hands  were  the  hands  of  a 
man  of  breeding  and  he  smoked  a  cigarette 
through  a  long  amber  holder — I  pointed  him  out 
to  the  guard — "a  forger — "  he  said,  indifferently. 
I  asked  about  the  negroes — "I  suppose  they 
have  done  desperate  things — ?"  The  guard  shook 
his  head,  "they're  not  half  such  bad  chaps,  most 
of  them,  as  some  of  the  white  men — " 

I  stayed  till  the  big  bell  sounded  and  the  motley 
humans  were  locked  up  for  the  night.  Then  I 
went  back  and  talked  to  Warden  Johnston.  He 
is  severe  and  looks  hard,  but  his  theory  is  to  ac- 
complish the  regeneration  of  men's  souls  through 
kindness  and  trust,  and  not  the  brutalizitation  of 
a  man  into  a  stone.  He  hopes  that  most  of  these 
men  when  they  come  out  may  have  a  new  chance 
in  life  and  make  a  success.  When  I  got  home  late 
for  dinner,  I  told  where  I  had  been.  Constance 
looked  surprised  and  even  perplexed.  "Did  you 
want  to  see  another  prison — ?"  "Well,  such  a  pri- 
son, yes,"  "How  did  you  get  from  San  Raffaele  to 
the  prison?"  "In  a  taxi — "  .  .  .  Exclamations — 

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how  did  I  dare  trust  myself  to  an  unknown  taxi, 
how  did  I  know  when  I  told  the  driver  to  go  to 
St.  Quentin  prison  three  miles  off  that  he  was  tak- 
ing me  there?  I  didn't  quite  know  what  to  say.  But 
it  seemed  to  me  that  if  I  wasn't  safe  to  go  in  a  taxi 
from  San  Rafaele  to  St.  Quentin  this  must  be  a  far 
more  dangerous  country  than  Russia  or  Mexico 
and  then  she  asked  me  this  strange  question  in  re-, 
ply  to  my  account! 

"Did  you  want  to  talk  with  the  women  prisoners 
for  an  hour — ?"  I  thought  of  all  the  hours  we  had 
spent  talking  with  women  in  the  sheltered  veran- 
dahs of  Burlingame,  and  I  did  not  dare  to  tell  her 
that  the  women  of  St.  Quentin  had  roused  in  me 
a  desire  to  go  to  prison,  so  as  to  gain  some  human 
understanding. 

OCTOBER  29,  1921.     Los  Angeles. 

I  got  back  to  Los  Angeles  yesterday  morning. 
Instead  of  starting,  as  planned,  for  New  York, 
my  change  of  plans  being  due  to  a  telegram  from 
Mr.  Lehr  of  the  Goldwyn  Company  asking  me  if 
I  would  dine  on  Monday  night  next  to  meet 
Charlie  Chaplin,  who  is  due  to  arrive  that  day. 
And  so  of  course  I  succumbed  to  another  delay  in 
my  schedule.  A  month  ago  I  should  have  been 
back  in  New  York  but  time,  they  say,  was  made 
for  slaves — . 

This  evening,  at  sunset,  Dick  and  I  drove  past  - 

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the  flying  field  and  watched  the  planes  set  out 
against  the  evening  sky.     Dick  begged  to  be  al- 
lowed to  go  up,  but  I  was  frankly  afraid.    This 
morning  I  was  ashamed  of  my  fear.    I  know  that 
I  was  wrong.     One  should  always  trust  people, 
things,  Destiny.    So  Louise  and  Dick  and  I  crush- 
ed into  a  small  front  seat  and  took  a  flight  out  over 
the  sea.    It  was  cool  and  it  was  steady.    The  green 
fields  and  the  plough  patches  looked  like  little 
mats  laid  out  to  dry.     The  motors  on  the  roads 
like  small  crawling  beetles.     We  could(  see  the 
mountains  behind  the  mountains,  and  way  down 
below  us,  on  the  earth,  our  little  shadow  followed 
us.    Dick  loved  it — he  wanted  to  fly  on  and  on.  It 
is  a  great  privilege  to  be  born  in  an  age  when  one 
can  get  up  and  leave  the  earth  the  moment  one  is 
bored  with  it. 

OCTOBER  31,  1921.    Los  Angeles. 

Charlie  Chaplin  arrived  in  Los  Angeles  today 
at  noon,  on  his  return  from  Europe.  I  met  him  at 
dinner.  We  were  just  a  party  of  four  at  the  Lehrs. 
It  has  been  a  wonderful  evening — I  seem  to  have 
been  talking  heart  to  heart  with  one  who  under- 
stands, who  is  full  of  deep  thought  and  deep  feel- 
ing. He  is  full  of  ideals  and  has  a  passion  for  all 
that  is  beautiful.  A  real  artist.  He  talked  a  great 
deal  about  his  trip  to  England.  It  had  been,  I 
gathered,  one  of  the  big  emotions  of  his  life.  He 
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left,  as  he  said,  "poor  and  unknown"  to  return  10 
years  later  famous  .... 

What  made  a  great  impression  on  him  was  the 
psychology  of  the  English  crowd,  which  seemed 
to  him  to  contain  such  a  spirit  of  reat  affection. 

Of  course  Charlie  is  English — and  England  was 
welcoming  her  own.  Besides,  who  has  more  right 
to  public  adulation  than  this  man  who  has  brought 
laughter  and  happiness  to  millions?  But  it  was 
sad,  he  said,  in  England — something  had  hap- 
pened, or  was  happening.  He  was  not  sure  if  it 
was  a  decay  that  had  set  in,  or  whether  it  was  a 
reconstruction.  But  everyone  looked  as  if  they 
had  suffered,  and  it  saddened  him  to  be  there.  A 
good  country  to  belong  to,  we  agreed,  but  not  a 
country  "for  a  creative  artist,"  he  advised  me  to  re- 
main where  I  am.  And  then,  in  spite  of  his  emo- 
tional, enthusiastic  temperament,  with  a  soundness 
oi ^judgment  that  surprised  me,  he  said:  "Don't 
get  lost  on  the  path  of  propaganda.  Live  your  life 
of  an  artist .  .  .  the  other  goes  on — always." 

One  can  see,  in  the  sadness  of  the  eyes — which 
the  humor  of  his  smile  cannot  dispel — that  the 
man  has  suffered — has  known  things  we  do  not 
dream.  Has  striven,  hoped  and  aimed.  Has 
reached  his  goal,  yet  he  is  not  content.  He  feels 
there  is  more  to  do,  and  see,  and  know,  more  to 
attain.  He  believes  in  work  and  in  producing 
always  the  best  of  one's  effort.    He  is  not  Bolshe- 

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vik  nor  Communist,  nor  Revolutionary,  as  I  had 
heard  rumoured.  He  is  an  individualist  with  the 
artist's  intolerance  of  stupidity,  insincerity,  and 
narrow  prejudice.  He  is  sincere  and  absolutely 
without  affectation.  He  has  no  illusions  as  to  what 
the  bourgeois  world  thinks  of  "movie  actors — " 
and  he  has  no  intention  of  being  patronized  by  the 
condescending.  He  has  an  almost  feminine  in 
tuition  about  people,  he  knows  at  once  if  they  are 
sincere  or  not.  Before  the  evening  was  over  we 
had  discussed  Lenin,  Lloyd  George,  Carpentier, 
J.  M.  Barrie,  and  H.  G.  Wells.  I  found  that  he 
had  each  person  pretty  well  summed  up,  and  his 
opinions  of  them  were  not  biased  by  the  world's 
opinion  of  them,  nor  clouded  by  their  fame;  and 
just  what  he  thought  (of  those  I  knew)  was  right. 
In  fact  Charlie  was  a  great  deal  more  interesting 
to  talk  to  than  most  of  the  people  who  are  expect- 
ed to  be. 

When  he  asked  me  about  my  work  in  this 
country,  I  explained  that  the  United  States  had 
made  of  me  a  writer  instead  of  a  sculptor,  and  I 
told  him  my  view  of  the  American  man  who  is  so 
modest  that  he  thinks  it  is  a  vanity  to  have  his  bust 
done. 

"He  does  not  mind  having  his  portrait  painted" 
I  said,  "he  has  grown  accustomed  to  the  idea.  But 
he  exaggerates  the  importance  of  a  portrait  bust. 
In  fact  he  is  quite  un-simple,  in  his  point  of  view, 

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i  -    ' 

almost  self-conscious—"  and  Charlie,  looking  at 
me  half  shyly,  half  humorously,  as  he  sat  tucked 
away  in  the  sofa  corner,  under  the  light  of  the 
lamp:  "I'm  vainl"  he  said— "Thank  goodness  1" 
I  said.  And  so  we  fixed  it  right  away — that  I  will 
linger  here  until  his  bust  is  done. 

On  the  way  back  to  Hollywood  Hotel  where  he 
dropped  me  in  his  car,  we  had  a  discussion  on  mar- 
riage. He  has  the  chivalry,  and  the  instinct  to 
protect,  I  maintained  my  fanaticism  of  freedom. 

He  is  a  strange  little  man  with  a  great  big  soul. 
He  made  me  think  of  Francis  Thompson's  essay 
on  Shelley,  in  which  he  said  that  Shelley  tired  not 
so  much  of  a  woman's  arms,  as  of  her  soul.  It 
seemed  to  me  it  was  more  a  spiritual  than  a  phy- 
sical companionship  that  Charlie  is  subconsci- 
ously searching  for,  in  his  heart. 

November  2,  1921.  Hollywood. 

I  have  been  with  Charlie  from  midday  to  mid- 
night. He  has  just  left  me.  First  we  went  to  his 
studio,  and  Dick  came  along  with  us  to  see  "The 
Kid"  which  I  had  never  seen.  He  had  it  put  on 
for  me  in  his  studio  theatre,  and  now  I  realize  the 
whole  world  of  possibilities  in  films.  Just  as  a 
"movie"  can  be  stupid,  boring,  badly  done,  and  ir- 
ritating, as  any  bad  bit  of  work  must  be,  so  too  it 
can  be  very  fine  and  very  beautiful.  Charlie  has 
produced  an  exquisite  story.  It  might  so  easily  have 

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been  "soppy"  and  full  of  false  sentiments — but  it 
is  not.    It  is  simple,  human  and  full  of  pathos. 

Dick  reacted  to  it  in  the  most  stirring  way. 
When  the  moment  came  that  the  Kid  was  to  be 
taken  from  Charlie  and  put  in  an  orphan  asylum, 
Dick  clung  round  my  neck  and  cried  and  sobbed. 
He  said  "I  can't  bear  it,  I  can't  look  till  the  end." 
He  got  so  hysterical  that  Charlie  was  quite  alarm- 
ed and  had  to  reassure  him  by  saying  that  it  wasn't 
true.  "It's  only  a  play  Dick!  It  will  all  come  right 
in  the  end!"  Charlie  too  was  quite  affected  by 
Dick's  emotion. 

Whenever  we  came  to  the  pathos  parts,  Charlie 
tiptoed  to  the  harmonium  and  played  an  accom- 
paniment and  when  the  lights  went  on  Dick  and  I 
were  shamefacedly  mopping  our  eyes! 

When  we  went  up  to  his  house  and  lunched,  it 
was  half  past  three!  The  house  which  is  not  his, 
but  is  rented,  is  Moorish  and  fantastic  in  design, 
the  tortuous  unsimplicity  of  which  disturbs 
Charlie.  But  he  loves  the  quiet  of  it  and  the  isola- 
tion on  a  hill  top  with  the  panorama  of  the  town 
extending  for  miles  below  to  the  sea.  At  night, 
as  he  says,  it  is  just  a  fairy  twinkling  world  when 
the  town  lights  up.  Later  we  went  for  a  walk 
round  the  hilltop,  and  the  air  was  hot  and  full  of 
evening  insect  sounds.  Dick  scrambled  wildly  up 
the  sloping  banks,  while  Charlie  and  I  more  se- 
dately walked  round  and  round  by  the  winding 
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climbing  path.  He  was  trying  to  tell  me  what  he 
thought  was  the  ultimate  aim  of  all  our  effort.  He 
maintained  that  no  artist  would  do  great  work  un- 
til all  petty  ambition  was  obliterated. 

"There  must  be  no  dreams  of  posterity,  of  im- 
mortality, no  desire  for  admiration,  for  after  all 
what  are  these  worth  ...  at  best  1,000  years  hence 
people  might  walk  round)  your  immortal  stone 
and  say — it  certainly  is  beautiful;  yes,  it  is  won- 
derful—  (and  Charlie  acted  the  part) — Who  did 
you  say  did  it?  Clare  Sheridan  950  years  ago" — 
"and  then,"  said  Charlie,  "in  5  minutes  they  will 
be  saying  'Where  is  that  motor,  I  told  him  to  be 
back  in  35  minutes' " — There  is  nothing,  he  said> 
so  beautiful  that  will  make  people  forget  their 
eggs  and  bacon  for  breakfast — as  for  admiration 
of  the  world — it's  not  worth  anything — there  is  in 
the  end  but  oneself  to  please: — "You  make  some- 
thing because  it  means  something  to  you.  You 
work,  because  you  have  a  superabundance  of  vital 
energy,  you  find  that  not  only  you  can  make  chil- 
dren but  you  can  express  yourself  in  other  ways — 
in  the  end  it  is  you — all  you — your  work,  your 
thought,  your  conception  of  the  beautiful,  yours 
the  happiness — yours  the  satisfaction;  be  brave 
enough  to  face  the  veil,  and  lift  it,  and  see  and 
know  the  void  it  hides,  and  stand  before  that  void 
and  know  that  within  yourself  is  your  world — " 

I  said  rather  feebly  that  I  wanted  my  children 

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someday  to  be  proud  of  me — he  made  a  repudiat- 
ing gesture.  "You  should  want  them  to  love  you — 
to  love  you  in  a  perfectly  primitive  animal  way. 
To  love  you  because  you  are  you — to  love  you 
whatever  you  are — to  love  you  if  you  are  wrong." 

I  said  that  if  he  left  me  nothing  to  work  for,  no 
aim,  no  end,  only  my  own  satisfaction,  I  thought 
4  one  might  feel  suicidal. 

He  was  horrified  at  this.  We  stopped  in  our 
walk.  Charlie  looked  at  me:  "How  could  anyone 
like  you  with  so  much  vitality  talk  of  suicide?  Oh 
the  glory  of  life,  the  glory  of  the  world  (he  threw 
his  arms  wide  to  the  horizon)  it's  all  so  beautiful, 
and  it's  all  mine  .  .  ."  and  then  we  had  to  laugh  at 
ourselves  for  becoming  so  desperately  serious. 

I  had  not  meant  to  stay  so  long  but  he  asked 
Dick  if  he  would  like  to  stay  for  tea,  and  Dick 
said  yes,  and  that  he'd  like  to  stay  the  night  as  well. 
Dick  likes  Charlie.  He  says  to  him:  "Charlie, 
you're  the  funniest  man  there  is  .  .  ."  and  in  the  car 
going  home  after  tea,  Dick  said  that  as  I  had 
talked  to  Charlie  all  the  afternoon  it  was  only  fair 
that  he  should  have  him  all  to  himself  until  we 
arrived  home.  Finally  Charlie  and  I  went  and 
dined  together,  and  danced  at  the  Ambassador 
Hotel.  Everyone  knew  him,  and  seemed  glad  to 
see  him  back.  The  whole  world  is  Charlie's 
friend,  no  wonder  Charlie  loves  the  world! 

Then,  such  a  strange  thing  happened,  there  in 

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that  gay  room  full  of  jazz  music  we  got  to  talking 
of  our  childhoods.  Goodness  knows  how  it  came 
about,  but  I  told  him  mine,  and  then  he  told  me 
his.  He  told  it  with  his  wonderful  simplicity, 
told  it  with  detachment  as  if  he  were  telling  of 
some  one  else,  not  of  him.  It  was  a  terrible  bit  of 
realism,  and  1  though  I  rather  love  realism,  I  felt 
almost  a  desire  to  stop  him  from  going  on.  It  was 
more  than  one  could  bear  to  visualise. 

It  was  a  curious  place  in  which  to  tell  such 
things,  but  we  were  oblivious  of  everyone  in  the 
room.  And  now,  stranger  to  me  than  ever  is  the 
psychology  of  this  man,  once  a  little  child  of  sor- 
rows, who  has  taught  a  whole  world  to  laugh. 

Thursday,  November  3,  1921.  Los  Angeles. 
,     I  have  worked  the  whole  day  on  Charlie's  head, 
worked  at  his  house.     Today  is  Thursday  and  it 
has  to  be  finished  on  Saturday  because  he  wants 
to  go  to  Catalina  and  fish. 

It  was  a  very  peaceful  day,  and  though  the 
lovely  Claire  Windsor  was  there  when  I  arrived, 
no  one  disturbed  us  during  the  remainder  of  the 
day.  His  moods  varied  with  the  hours.  He 
started  the  morning  in  a  brown  silk  dressing 
gown,  and  was  serious.  After  having  sat  pretty 
quiet  for  some  time,  he  jumped  off  the  revolving 
stand  and  walked  round  the  room  playing  the 
violin.    Having  thus  dispelled  his  sober  mood  he 

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went  upstairs,  changed  his  dressing-gown  and  re- 
appeared in  an  orange  and  primrose  one,  and  we 
went  on  with  the  work.  He  is  perfectly  right, 
one's  desire  for  color  depends  entirely  on  one's 
mood. 

Now  and  then  we  stopped  for  a  cup  of  tea,  for 
a  tune  on  the  piano,  for  a  breath  of  air,  on  the  sun- 
bathed balcony  and  Charlie  with  his  wild  hair 
standing  on  end,  and  his  orange  gown  dazzling 
against  the  white  wall  of  his  moorish  house,  would 
either  philosophise  or  impersonate.  He  told  me 
that  when  he  was  a  young  man  in  London,  he 
longed  to  know  people,  but  that  now  he  knew  so 
many  and  he  felt  lonelier  than  ever,  and  it  is  no 
use,  he  said,  for  artists  to  hope  to  be  anything  else. 
He  then  put  on  a  gramaphone  record  and  con- 
ducted an  imaginary  band.  It  was  a  very  enter- 
taining day,  and  the  work  got  on  awfully  well. 

Saturday,  November  5,  1921.  Hollywood. 

Three  whole  days  I  have  worked  on  that  bust, 
with  a  concentration  of  effort  that  is  exhausting. 
It  is  finished — I  feel  tonight  the  elation  of  a  girl 
out  of  school.  Moreover  I  can  sleep  without  the 
anxiety  due  to  an  unfinished  work.  Charlie  is 
pleased,  and  I — well  I  am  never  satisfied,  but  I 
am  conscious  of  having  accomplished' my  best.  His 
friends  who  know  his  restless  and  capricious 
nature  are  surprised  that  he  gave  me  those  three 

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'CHARLIE"  IN  HIS  DRESSING-GOWN  ON  HIS  MOORISH 
SUNBATHED    VERANDA 

(Photograph  by   Clare   Sheridan) 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

whole  days.  I  was  fortunate  of  course  in  meeting 
him  immediately  in  his  return,  before  he  was  re- 
engulfed  in  work.  Moreover,  with  some  percep- 
tion, I  planted  myself  with  my  materials  in  his 
house,  and  as  I  wanted  him  bare  throated  I  beg- 
ged him  not  to  dress.  A  man  in  pajamas  and  dres- 
sing-gown does  not  suddenly  get  a  notion  to  order 
his  motor  and  go  off  to  some  place.  I  had  him 
fairly  anchored.  Nevertheless  he  has  been  dif- 
ficult to  do.  There  is  so  much  subtlety  in  the 
face,  and  sensitiveness,  and  all  his  varying  per- 
sonalities arrayed  themselves  before  me,  and  had 
to  be  embodied  into  one  interpretation. 

Charlie  would  get  down  from  the  model  stand 
and  observe  the  progress  through  half  closed  eyes. 
Once  he  said:  "I  wish  this  was  not  me,  so  that  I 
could  admire  it  as  I  please.  I  find  him  very  in- 
teresting, this  fellow  you  have  made!"  and  then, 
after  a  close  examination  from  all  angles  he 
added : 

"It  might  be  the  head  of  a  criminal,  mightn't 
it — ?"  and  proceeded  to  elaborate  a  sudden  born 
theory  that  criminals  and  artists  were  psycholo- 
gically akin.  On  reflection  we  all  have  a  flame. 
A  burning  flame  of  impulse,  a  vision,  a  side 
tracked  mind,  a  deep  sense  of  unlawfulness. 

Later,  as  I  was  finishing,  the  Comte  de  Limur 
arrived.  He  is  a  young  Frenchman  who  is  study- 
ing the  moving  picture  work,  for  France.     He 

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looked  at  the  bust,  and  then  at  Charlie,  and  then 
slyly  at  me:  "I  see,  it  is  Pan  .  .  ."  and  added  with 
a  chuckle:  "one  can  never  deceive  a  womanl" 

As  I  needed  to  work  until  quite  late,  it  was  for- 
tunate that  Charlie  had  changed  his  mind  about 
Catalina.  He  heard  yesterday  that  the  fishing 
season  closed  there  on  November  ist. 

On  receipt  of  this  news  he  flashed  a  new  idea: 
summoning  by  shouts  "To-om!"  his  secretary,  he 
asked:  "Can  you  get  some  tents?  Can  you  get 
some  tinned  foods?  Can  you  find  a  location  suit- 
able for  camping — can  we  start  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing?" 

The  reply  was  in  the  affirmative,  unhesitatingly. 
"Shall  we  take  a  chef,  or  do  our  own  cooking?" 
Charlie  looked  at  me,  I  informed  him  that  I 
couldn't  boil  an  tgg.  "You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself.  We'll  take  a  chef — "  he  said.  And 
so  my  return  to  New  York  planned  for  Wednes- 
day is  again  delayed. 

Sunday,  November  6,  1921. 

We  had  planned  to  start  in  the  morning  at  half 
past  ten,  but  it  was  nearer  half  past  twelve  when 
we  found  ourselves  en  route,  and  Charlie  had 
changed  his  mind.  He  said:  "They  found  two 
locations  for  camp,  one  in  the  mountains,  and  one 
in  the  woods,  but  I  have  decided  I  want  to  go  to 
the  sea  shore — we  will  go  and  look  for  a  place  .  .  ." 
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"Then  is  no  camp  ready  for  us?"  I  asked  in  dis- 
may. (Knowing  something  of  the  business  of 
camping.)  "Our  tents  are  following  us  in  a  van," 
he  said  and  they  surely  followed.— What  a  "fol- 
low the  leader  game"  for  anything  as  cumbersome 
as  a  van!  And  a  Ford  followed  us  as  well,  contain-  - 
ing  the  chef!    , 

We  stopped  by  the  wayside  for  an  ice-cream 
cone,  and  we  lunched  in  a  little  town,  where  the 
proprietor  addressed  Charlie  as  "brother" — 
Charlie  said  it  was  quite  habitual  among  the  real 
Americans  of  that  class.  I  said  I  thought  it  was 
very  attractive  as  that  one  hardly  needed  a  revolu- 
tion to  bring  about  comradship,  in  a  country 
where  the  waiter  calls  you  "brother."  Charlie  was 
rather  scornful  about  the  sentimentalism  of  my 
revolutionary  ideals. 

When  we  left  the  cafe,  children  had  assembled 
in  the  streets  and  shouted  "Goodbye  Charlie"  as 
we  drove  away.  It  was  only  his  fondness  for  chil- 
dren that  made  him  wave  to  them.  Otherwise  (I 
have  observed)  he  has  no  desire  to  be  recognized 
or  lionized. 

Who  has  ever  seen  an  American  country  road  on 
a  Sunday,  and  not  deplored  the  prosperity  of  the 
nation,  especially  within  radius  of  Los  Angeles? 
The  road  is  like  a  smooth  winding  ribbon  on  which 
they  race,  they  pursue,  they  overtake,  the  atmos- 
phere is  gas  and  dust,  the  surface  is  thick  and  oily. 

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Any  road  that  is  a  road  at  all  is  humming  with  the 
throb  of  machines.  The  only  road  that  has  no 
traffic  in  America  is  what  is  called  a  "dirt-road." 
It  isn't  "dirt"  at  all  as  we  understand  the  word 
dirt  in  England.  It  is  just  Mother  Earth,  but 
these  roads  lead  to  nowhere,  they  end  in  a  field  on 
a  farmhouse,  as  we  discovered,  and  lost  much  time 
exploring  and  re-tracing.  The  macadam  roads 
led  down  to  the  sea  shore  in  places  where  crowds 
had  gathered  together  to  camp  or  picnic.  That 
is  peculiar  about  Americans,  they  love  being  to- 
gether. I  questioned  Charlie:  "Surely  there  must 
be  lovely  peaceful  places  unmarred  by  civiliza- 
tion?" and  he  said:  "No — if  there  is  a  lovely 
place  that  is  accessible,  everyone  will  have  found 
it  .  .  .  ." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "we  must  content  ourselves  with 
a  horrid  place  that  nobody  wants!" 

The  sun  sank  lower  and  Charlie's  spirit  with  it. 
He  mopped  his  brow  and  shouted:  "On — on — 
hurry!"  to  the  chauffeur.  It  was  a  race  with  day- 
light. Would  anyone  have  believed  it  was  so  dif- 
ficult to  get  away  from  the  world! 

"You  should  do  like  the  Mexican  motors,"  Dick 
said,  "and  go  across  country — " 

In  the  distance  we  saw  a  clump  of  trees  that 
stood  out  from  afar  in  a  flat  colorless  country, 
and  they  were  by  the  sea.  Once  again  we  plunged 
off  the  macadam  road  and  pursued  a  sandy  track 
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for  more  miles.  Little  by  little  the  world  and  the 
sounds  of  the  world  were  left  behind  and  we  were 
alone.  The  road  ended  as  usual,  and  we  found  a 
farm  house  and  a  notice: 

"Private  property. — No  trespassing — no  camp- 
ing— no  hunting — "  and  then  the  sun  set. 

Our  feelings  just  for  a  moment  were  indescrib- 
able. 

The  place  was  perfect.  It  was  everything  we 
had  dreamed,  and  more.  The  wood  was  of  euca- 
lyptus trees,  and  the  smell  of  them  mingled  with 
the  smell  of  the  sea,  and  the  evening  air  was  still 
and  fragrant.  We  sent  a  messenger  to  the  land 
proprietor,  asking  permission  to  remain,  and  im- 
pending the  answer  we  walked  over  the  sand 
dunes  to  the  sea  shore.  The  sun  had  left  a  crim- 
son and  indigo  reflection  in  the  sky  which  colored 
the  foam  waves  as  they  broke  one  upon  another. 
Charlie  was  in  ecstacies,  he  was  breathlessly  in- 
articulate in  his  appreciation,  and  we  both  fol- 
lowed his  example,  doubled  ourselves  up,  and 
looked  at  the  horizon  upside  down  because  as  he 
said,  one  got  a  far  stronger  impression  of  it.  When 
we  got  back  to  the  wood  we  found  that  all  was 
well.  Charlie  of  course  is  Charlie  and  permission 
was  granted  to  remain.  In  the  dark  five  tents  were 
pitched  on  the  outskirts  of  the  wood. 

Late  into  the  night  I  sat  with  him  over  the  camp- 
fire.   A  half-moon  rose  and  little  veils  of  sea  swept 

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like  gossamer  over  the  dunes,  and  the  naked  shiny 
eucalyptus  stems  cast  black  shadows.  Mingling 
with  the  night  bird  cries,  the  rhythmical  sound  of 
the  sea  on  the  shore. 

One  by  one  the  lanterns  in  the  camp  flickered 
and  went  out.  Charlie  sat  huddled  up  before  the 
flame,  an  elfin,  elemental  creature  with  gleaming 
eyes  and  towsled  hair.  His  little  nervous  hands 
raking  the  embers  with  a  stick.  His  voice  was 
very  deep,  the  voice  of  a  much  bigger  man.  He 
ruminated  moodily.  He  said  it  was  "too  much — ■ 
too  great — too  beautiful — there  are  no  words — " 

Wednesday,  November  9,  1921. 

By  the  Sea — California. 

We  seem  to  have  been  divinely  led  to  this  most 
beautiful  and  secluded  place.  One  can  hardly  be- 
lieve it  was  mere  chance.  So  near  civilization  we 
are,  and  yet  no  one  passes  this  way.  As  far  as  the 
eye  can  see  the  curving  beach  belongs  to  the  sea- 
birds.  There  is  a  fresh  water  lake  full  of  pre- 
served wild  duck,  and  word  has  been  sent  by  the 
proprietor  that  we  may  shoot,  hunt,  cut  wood,  and 
do  whatever  we  like!  We  surely  picked  a  good 
spot,  and  then  the  sand  dunes!  We  discovered 
such  a  high  one  yesterday,  and  Dick  took  a  header 
down  it,  as  if  he  were  diving.  So  we  got  no  fur- 
ther on  our  walk,  but  lingered  there  and  spent  the 
entire  afternoon  scrambling  up  and  sliding  down 
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head  first.  Charlie  brought  it  to  a  fine  art,  he 
came  down  slowly  with  a  rhythmical  movement  as 
if  swimming;  even  sand  sliding  he  does  beauti- 
fully. Once  we  rolled  down,  and  fetched  up  dazed 
and  giddy  at  the  bottom. 

When  the  sunset  sky  became  streaked  pink  and 
purple,  Charlie  kicked  off  his  shoes,  and  danced 
with  his  beautiful  small  feet  naked  on  the  sand. 
He  did  imitations  of  Nijinsky  and  Pavlowa — he 
does  it  so  well  and  with  so  much  grace  that  one 
doesn't  know  whether  to  laugh  or  silently  appre- 
ciate. 

The  more  I  see  of  Charlie,  and  the  more  I  know 
him,  the  more  I  appreciate  him.  He  never  does, 
says,  or  thinks  an  ugly  thing.  I  have  never  met 
anyone  like  him.  I  find  myself  dominated  by  his 
intensity,  and  metaphorically  sitting  at  his  feet,  ac- 
cepting his  judgment.  He  is  so  immensely  bigger 
than  the  work  he  is  engaged  on.  I  believe  that  if 
he  survives,  he  may  in  a  few  years  take  a  very  big 
place  in  international  public  life.  We  have  dis- 
cussed half  jokingly  the  project  of  his  standing  for 
Parliament.  I  assured  him  no  one  would  dare  to 
contest  him  and  that  he  would  have  a  "walk-over." 
I  have  heard  him  make  impassioned  speeches  to 
imaginary  crowds.  He  has  harangued  the  sand 
dunes.  Not  only  did  he  talk  well  but  he  talked 
sense,  and  his  magnetism  and  vision  recalled  to  my 
memory  that  leader  of  men:  Trotzky.     The  only 

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pity  is  that  he  is  too  emotional,  he  is  almost  con- 
sumed by  the  flame  within  him.  This  is,  I  sup- 
pose, inevitable  in  so  great  an  artist.  His  intensity 
is  terrific.  Whatever  he  does  he  does  it  intensely. 
He  is  intensely  funny,  but  he  is  intensely  tragic 
too,  he  shoots  with  such  intensity  that  when  he  lost 
a  duck  it  nearly  broke  his  heart.  He  puts  the  same 
spirit  into  the  tunneling  of  sand  bridges  for  Dick, 
or  the  story  he  invents  about  the  wrecked  ship  on 
the  beach.  He  is  as  intensely  materialist  as  he  is 
idealist.  As  intensely  sincere  and  honest,  and  now 
because  he  wants  to  be  sound  on  some  new  phil- 
osophical doctrine,  he  is  studying  mathematics 
with  equal  intensity.  I  can  imagine  that  at  night 
he  must  sleep  with  clenched  fists  and  eyelids  tight 
shut,  and  all  the  intensity  of  unconsciousness. 

In  moments  of  intense  depression  he  exclaims: 
"I  must  get  back  to  work — but  I  don't  feel  like  it. 
I  don't  feel  funny.  Think — think  of  it:  if  I  never 
could  be  funny  again!" 

It  is  his  visit  to  England  that  has  shattered  him 
emotionally. 

Friday,  November  ii,  1921.    Los  Angeles. 

Yesterday  evening  when  we  started  out  on  a 
walk,  at  dusk,  a  party  appeared  and  waylaid  us  on 
our  path,  they  had  with  them  some  children,  to 
whom  they  wished, — they  said — to  show  Charlie 
Chaplin. 

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'CHARLIE"  TELLS  DICK  THE  STORY  OF  THE  WRECKED 
SHIP  ON  THE  BEACH 

(Photograph   by    Clare    Sheridan) 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

It  was  a  painful  moment,  he  was  shy  and  un- 
prepared, the  children  gaped,  conversation  was 
halting. 

This  morning  five  motors  full  of  children  ar- 
rived, being  the  entire  family,  nephews  and  nieces 
of  the  landowner.  The  camp  was  disarrayed,  we 
had  planned  our  departure.  Later  two  reporters 
appeared  and  undaunted  by  the  fact  that  Charlie 
was  not  in  camp  they  set  out  over  the  dunes  in 
search  of  him. 

I  watched  them  walking  back  together,  Charlie, 
head  bowed  the  picture  of  dejection.  His  last 
morning  had  been  spoiled,  the  beauty  and  peace, 
so  hard  to  attain,  seemed  to  have  been  a  little 
tarnished.  We  left  hurriedly,  leaving  the  reporters 
in  possession  of  the  cherished  spot  that  we  had  not 
time  to  look  at  lingeringly. 

"It  was  time  we  left — "  he  said,  and  I  visualised 
to  myself,  Charlie  hunted,  flying  from  pursuers, 
lost  to  view  for  perhaps  4  days,  maybe  5,  then  dis- 
covered, and  fleeing  again  "ad  infinitem."  For  him 
no  peace.  When  at  the  end  of  a  70  mile  drive  we 
reached  his  house  he  ordered  tea.  We  sat  in  chairs 
by  an  electric  lamp,  and  tried  to  talk.  We  found 
ourselves  making  conversation  to  one  another  with 
difficulty.  He  looked  at  me  as  strangely  as  I 
looked  at  him,  and  then  he  said : 

"You  know  what's  the  matter — We  don't  know 
each  other." 

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And  it  was  true.  I  was  talking  not  with  the  ele- 
mental wild-haired  Charlie  of  the  campfire,  nor 
yet  with  Charlie  Chaplin  of  the  films,  but  with  a 
neatly  dressed,  smooth-haired  sophisticated  young 
man  I  didn't  even  know  by  sight.  Civilization  and 
its  trappings  have  changed  us  both.  The  past 
seemed  tinged  with  unreality. 

The  next  day  (Nov.  12,  1921)  we  said  goodbye 
to  the  sunshine,  the  orange  trees,  the  avenues  of 
date  palms  and  took  the  "sunset  route"  for  New 
York.  Charlie  came  to  see  us  off,  and  was  al- 
lowed past  the  barrier  onto  the  departure  plat- 
form, a  privilege  which  made  him  conspicuous. 
Later,  the  conductor  took  Dick  aside  and  asked 
him  if  he  was  Jackie  Coogan's  brother!  Four 
whole  days  and  nights  we  travelled  over  this  end- 
less and  tremendous  country.  Dick  said  he  wished 
the  train  were  a  Mexican  train,  and  I  knew  what 
he  meant.  In  Mexico  the  monotony  would  have 
been  relieved  by  an  occasional  good  breakdown, 
which  would  have  enabled  us  to  bathe  in  wayside 
ponds  and  rivers,  or  explore  woods.  But  the  "Sun- 
set Express"  went  on  and  on,  day  after  day,  hardly 
ever  stopping.  Little  by  little  the  dust  of  the 
desert  and  the  sunshine  of  California  gave  way  to 
greyness  and  cold,  until  suddenly  one  morning  we 
found  ourselves  in  Chicago. 

There  was  no  temptation  to  linger  in  Chicago. 

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We  went  to  a  store  and  bought  some  warm  clothes, 
and  caught  the  very  next  train  out. 

Wei  got  back  to  New  York  just  in  time  for 
Louise  and  Dick  to  sail  for  England  on  the  Baltic. 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  some  time  before  that  I 
must  have  Margaret.  The  ache  caused  by  our 
separation  grew  worse,  not  better.  So  I  risked  the 
possibility  of  Dick  being  kidnapped  by  the  family 
in  England  and  sent  him  to  fetch  her. 

During  the  ten  days  he  was  there  I  received 
about  three  cables  a  day  from  various  relations, 
containing  every  variety  of  excuse  for  the  chil- 
dren remaining  over  there.  I  was  denying  them 
"their  British  birthright"  was  the  grandiose  state- 
ment. I  felt  none  too  happy  and  secure  until  a 
few  days  before  Xmas  a  wireless  from  the  Celtic 
announced  their  triumphant  return.  It  was  a 
triumph  indeed,  after  six  years  work,  the  realisa- 
tion of  this  dream,  that  we  should  have  a  home 
together.  As  the  ship  came  gliding  alongside  the 
quay  I  saw  the  pink  radiant  face,  the  luminously 
bright  eyes  of  the  little  daughter  I  had  not  seen 
for  a  year.  L.  and  she  shouted  to  me  across  the 
narrow  water  space:  "  Mummie!  Am  I  ever  to 
leave  you  again?"  I  was  struck  by  the  strangeness 
of  her  English  accent.  "It  will  soon  go!"  she  said 
when  I  commented  on  it  (and  it  surely  is  fading 
fast!).    Dick  meanwhile,  according  to  the  letters 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

that  accompanied   him,   scandalised  the   already 
overstrained  English  relations  by  saying  that  "God 
save  the  King"  was  quite  "dreadfully  awful,"  and 
preferring  America  to  England  when  asked  his 
opinion.    They  do  not  understand  that  we  do  not 
love  England  less,  nor  America  more ;  we  regard 
the  world  as  ours  and  our  right  is  to  take  the  best 
wherever  we  find  it.    Why  should  one  be  confined 
to  one  country?    Italy  is  my  garden,  Russia  is  my 
church,    England    is   my   sleeping-chamber,    the 
United  States  my  work-shop.     In  my  mother's 
country  there  is  an  atmosphere  of  hope,  a  vitality 
and  a  work  incentive  that  does  not  exist  any  more 
in  the  old  world.     This  is  called  "the  land  of 
promise"  and  people  come  as  to  no  other  country 
— in  thousand  and  thousands,  of  all  races,  creeds 
and  classes.     There  is  no  disloyalty  implied  to 
the  land  of  one's  birth  in  seeking  fortune  be- 
yond its  shores.    The  blood  in  the  veins  of  some 
of  us  may  belong  to  varying  countries  and  con- 
flicting   races,    and    as    the    only    hope    for    the 
future  peace  of  the  world  is  in  internationalism 
this  spirit  should  be  encouraged — not  deplored. 

January  9,  1922. 

I  had  settled  down  in  my  studio,  with  the  desire 
that  overcomes  one  after  awhile  to  atone  for  in- 
fidelity. I  had  firmly  resolved  never  more  to 
write  nor  speak,  and  to  cleave  only  to  the  one  art 
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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

that  is  in  my  heart.  My  mind  was  full  of  new 
creative  work,  dancing  figures,  fantasies  and  por- 
traits, when  suddenly  I  was  asked  to  go  to  Boston 
and  address  a  meeting  for  Russian  relief. 

I  accepted  the  offer,  not  because  I  presumed 
that  any  effort  of  mine  could  help  much  towards 
the  starving  Russian  babies,  but  I  wanted  to  see 
Boston. 

I  had  heard  of  Boston  almost  more  than  of  any 
town  in  the  United  States.  Henry  James  whom 
I'd  loved  from  childhood,  had  come  from  there, 
and  my  mother-in-law  who  used  to  say  to  me: 
"I  am  not  American,  I  am  Bostonian."  Henry 
Adams  I  had  known,  and  Cabot  Lodge,  the  friend 
of  my  father,  they  too  came  from  there.  I  had 
heard  of  the  child  who  recited  the  Lord's  prayer 
saying :  ". .  .Thy  kingdom  come,  Thy  will  be  done, 
as  it  is  in  Boston,"  and  so  I  started  off  with  curios- 
ity, and  expectations. 

I  got  there  on  Friday  night  just  in  time  to  speak 
at  Ford  Hall,  which  was  fitted  with  a  motley 
crowd  (and  some  Motleys  among  the  crowd,  who 
had  come  out  of  curiosity  to  see  their  unknown  in- 
law, and  who  would  never  otherwise  have  dreamt 
of  going  to  such  a  meeting!) 

The  audience  were  responsive  and  sympathetic, 
but  I  knew  they  had  to  be  cajoled,  entertained, 
amused.  I  made  them  laugh.  So  they  stayed  and 
listened.    I  made  an  appeal,  and  brought  in  a  few 

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hundred  dollars.  But  I  despise  the  methods  that 
have  to  be  used  to  induce  sympathy  for  starving 
babies.  People  have  to  be  bribed  to  give,  bribed 
by  the  possibility  of  amusement — endless  vitality 
is  exhausted  in  organising  balls,  theatre  perform- 
ances, concerts,  or  entertaining  lectures  that  will 
draw  the  otherwise  apathetic.  I  have  seen  in  a 
little  fifth  story  room  on  the  East  Side,  the  volun- 
tary efforts  of  skilled  workers,  who  are  giving  up 
their  Saturday  afternoons  and  holidays  and  giving 
their  labor  free  and  making  garments  for  the  chil- 
dren of  Russia  from  the  lengths  of  woolen  ma- 
terial donated  by  various  mills.  There  I  saw  some 
of  the  garment  workers  who  have  been  so  long 
out  on  strike,  not  only  contributing  their  work, 
but  a  dollar  a  month  besides  towards  the  rent  of 
their  premises.  These  were  the  "Tailors'  Technical 
Aid  Society"  for  Russian  children.  These  were 
the  people  whose  services  brought  a  lump  to  my 
throat  as  I  watched  the  zeal  and  earnestness  with 
which  they  worked.  Theirs  was  the  real  blessed- 
ness of  giving. 

To  the  people  of  leisure  and  means  I  hate  to  ap- 
peal, telling  them  my  personal  narrative  lightly 
for  their  entertainment.  Even  as  I  did  it,  I  vowed 
it  should  be  the  last  time.  On  Saturday  I  was  in- 
vited to  lunch  and  speak  at  the  Harvard  Liberal 
Club.  I  went,  thinking  it  would  be  pleasant  and 
354 


MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

liking  immature  youth,  and  having  thoughts  full 
of  the  remote  future  possibilities  of  Dick's  edu-  ' 
cation. 

As  it  turned  out  they  were  not  liberal  at  all  but 
rather  prejudiced,  and  I  was  assailed  with  eco- 
nomic questions  and  problems.  Very  erudite  in- 
deed were  these  young  men.  But  they  seemed  to 
believe  in  human  nature  working  only  for  gain, 
ignoring  completely  the  existence  of  enthusiasms 
and  beliefs,  and  sacrifices  for  ideals,  which  made 
those  skilled  workers,  just  referred  to,  work  for 
no  gain  at  all,  as  they  never  would  have  worked 
for  an  employer.  I  put  up  the  best  fight  I  could, 
but  in  the  end^  feeling  exhausted  and  battered,  I 
thanked  God  that  I  had  no  education  but  at  least 
an  open  heart. 

After  lunch  Harry  Dana  rescued  me  and  took 
me  to  his  aunt's  house  where  he  lives,  and  which 
is  called  "Longfellow  House."  It  is  of  historic  in- 
terest as  having  been  the  residence  of  Washing- 
ton and  also  of  Longfellow  whose  grandson  Harry 
Dana  is.  The  house  was  quaintly  and  attractive- 
ly Georgian  and  full  of  dead  memories,  marble 
busts  and  musty  laurel  wreaths.  We  retired  to 
his  book  lined  sanctum  and  with  us  was  an  Indian, 
a  follower  of  Gandhi,  who  was  lecturing  at 
Harvard.  We  lit  a  fire  and  sat  before  it  on  the 
floor  while  the  follower  of  Gandhi  talked  to  us  v 
of  Eastern  philosophy  and  oriental  serenity.     He 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

was  not  calm  in  spite  of  all  he  said  about  it,  but  his 
restlessness  was  not  the  impatient  unrest  of  the 
West,  it  had  the  dignity  of  the  tiger.  As  he  paced 
back  and  forth,  talking  the  while,  his  talk  was  full 
of  poetry  and  imagery.  I  realised  what  had  been 
lacking  in  the  composition  of  one's  days:  Here 
there  is  no  poetry  (with  apologies  to  Johnny 
Weaver  I).  There  is  not  time,  they  say,  and 
dreams  are  not  for  practical  people.  But  the 
follower  of  Gandhi  combined  all  the  practic- 
ability and  all  the  activity,  restlessness  and 
humor  of  the  West  with  the  (force  of  Eastern 
imagery.  They  are  great  artists,  the  descendants  of 
a  great  culture.  They,  not  we,  know  how  to  live, 
and  how  to  love  life. 

Incidentally  I  gathered  that  a  hot  place  to  be  in, 
next  December,  is  India  1  This  Indian  revolution 
interests  me  very  much.  I  believe  that  before  long 
all  eyes  will  be  turned  on  India. 

If  Gandhi's  methods  of  passive  resistance  are 
successful,  and  India  is  liberated  by  a  compara- 
tively bloodless  revolution,  it  may  mark  the  epoch 
of  a  new  era  and  a  new  religion. 

To-day,  the  majority  of  people  one  meets  are 
expressing  the  desire  that  Jews  and  Bolsheviks,  and 
Germans,  too,  should  be  wiped  out.  The  Christian 
peoples  whose  religion  is  based  on  forgiveness,  love 
and  tolerance,  have  been  killing  each  other  merci- 
lessly.   It  is  just  possible  that  Christianity  is  over, 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

that  it  "went  out"  in  blood  and  war.    Maybe  the 
renaissance  of  the  world  will  come  in  the  Orient. 

Spirit  is  unquenchable  and  inextinguishable. 
When  crushed  in  one  part  of  the  world  it  will  re- 
appear elsewhere.  I  make  no  pretense  of  prophecy. 
I  only  say:  Watch  India! 

I  spent  the  week-end  in  the  family  circle  and 
was  overwhelmed  with  kindness  and  hospitality. 
I,  who  have  grown  socialistic  and  Bohemian, 
suddenly  went  back  to  being  a  perfect  lady,  and 
as  a  novelty  enjoyed  it.  What  beautiful  manners 
they  had,  the  Bostonians  I  met,  just  naturally 
beautiful  old  world  manners.  They  seemed  like 
those  well  bred  people  one  knows  in  Europe  who 
are  so  absolutely  "places,"  so  deep  rootedly  aristo- 
cratic, that  they  can  afford  to  be  tolerant  without 
fear  of  losing  caste. 

I  have  wondered  a  good  deal  about  America 
and  Americans  during  the  year  I  have  spent  here. 
They  have  amused,  surprised  and  bewildered  me, 
but  it  was  not  until  I  came  to  Boston  that  I 
felt  I  was  at  home.  Even  the  town  is  English. 
There  was  Beacon  Street  with  its  long  row  of 
individual  small  houses  just  as  in  London,  and 
every  one  had  a  street  door.  I  never  went  into  an 
apartment.  Peoples'  rooms  seemed  to  be  full  of 
books  instead  of  American  beauty  roses.  It  was 
in  one  of  these  houses,  after  luncheon  one  day, 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

that  the  women  left  alone  together  discussed  the 
immortality  of  the  soul  without  any  semblance  of 
effort  or  affectation. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  my  host  took  me  to  the 
Public  Library  as  I  wanted  to  see  the  Sargent  mural 
paintings.  Crowds  were  pouring  in.  The  read- 
ing rooms  were  packed  full  of  silent  studious  fig- 
ures. People  came,  apparently  not  to  look  at  the 
Sargent's  and  few  of  them  lingered  over  the  Puvis 
de  Chevannes  that  lined  the  staircase  walls.  They 
came,  as  people  long  accustomed  to  their  own,  and 
went  straight  for  the  reading  rooms.  This  inter- 
ested me  more  even  than  the  paintings  I  went  to 
see.  I  felt  that  all  my  expectations  of  Boston  were 
being  fulfilled,  as  if  it  had  been  staged  for  me.  Bos- 
ton could  not  have  been  more  magnificently  Bos- 
tonian.  Here  resplendent  in  the  winter  sunlight 
stood  the  imposing  Library  Building,  and  people 
kept  pouring  ;inta  it  from  (every  direction.  It 
seemed  emblematical  of  all  that  Boston  stands  for. 

I  am  glad  I  have  been  to  Boston,  it  seems  to  com- 
plete one's  great  perplexity  concerning  the  United 
States.  Here  is  a  country  that  is  composed  of  such 
widely  different  towns  as  Washington,  Philadel- 
phia, San  Francisco,  Los  Angeles,  all  as  different 
from  one  another  as  they  are  different  from  New 
York,  and  as  different  as  New  York  is  from  Bos- 
ton. 

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MY  AMERICAN  DIARY 

I  wonder  there  is  any  co-ordination  of  movement 
or  feeling  at  all  in  such  a  country.  I  wonder 
there  is  any  political  unity,  any  fraternity,  and  yet 
there  is  more  than  all  that;  there  exists  a  national 
patriotic  spirit. 

Well — I  have  finished  wondering,  it  brings  one 
nowhere,  it  solves  nothing.  I  will  return  where  I 
belong,  to  the  world  of  line  and  form,  a  world  of 
one's  own  imaginings  where  there  are  fewer  per- 
plexities and  more  harmonies. 

THE  END 


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